


Dynamo

by Besin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Descriptions of PTSD, Modern Sci-Fi, Road Trip, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a fungi begins killing off Chlorophyll, the world shuts down. Electricity becomes exclusive to hospitals, gasoline is banned, and food begins to grow scarce as the fungi evolves. When Lydia Martin discovers a cure as Oxygen begins to drop to alarming levels, it's up to Stiles Stilinski, Laura Hale, and Laura’s uncle Peter to get her safely across the 2,900 miles between Beacon Hills, California and Washington DC in a hope to save the world.</p><p>A lot can happen in 2,900 miles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dynamo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: Arnaud, Bohenian, GravityBeams, Oliver, Stalker, Stine, and Wham for their fantastic cheerleading, guidance, input, and general ability to put up with me.
> 
> Biggest thanks to [Viktoria](http://hypnale.tumblr.com) for her amazing art. I started screaming when I saw it. Go check out [the art on its own](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4522053). It's amazing, isn't it?
> 
> [Listen to the Playlist.](http://8tracks.com/besinfection/2-900-miles)

** **

_Art by[Viktoria](http://hypnale.tumblr.com)  
_

**May 3rd, 2015**

It is the fourth anniversary of the disease. No one knows this, but it is. It’s been four years since the first tree lost its color to what specialists would come to call “Chlorentrophy.” This was when the first tree – a small fir in the northern reaches of Canada – fell prey to the disease. (Indeed, the disease to destroy the world would be Canadian.) And from its remains the fungi spread; microscopic and terrible.

Oddly enough, Russia reacted first. Then China. From there it was Korea, Bengal,  India, Akrotiri, and then – finally – Canada. America was one of the last to join the effort, two years into the disease crippling nearly every tree from Alaska to the northern tip of Texas. (Even Argentina, Madagascar, Australia, and Saudi Arabia would contribute more than the “land of the free,” though they were the last places to be hit.)

By the end of the second year all travel between countries was banned. The burning of gasoline, coal, and wood became an offense punishable by imprisonment. At first there were protests. Riots. No one would obey the new laws. But before long the gas stations shut down and the propane industry died. And as the air grew thick with smoke and carbon-dioxide the people began to calm. They formed small governments and turned to agriculture as the fungi began to change; to adapt to kill not only trees, but leafy greens and certain grasses. To bushes and stalks. And then, finally, to corn.

**...**

“ _Al partir un beso y una flor._ ”

In a small, cramped room, a young man sits hunched over a bike, humming along to the record that spins steadily in the corner. Clutched in one hand is a ratchet. The other, a bottle of WD-40. He drags the mouth evenly from one end of chain to the next, poking at cracks with an itchy trigger finger. Grabbing at the pedal, he drags it down with a concentrated grimace. Beside his elbow the wheel spins, smooth and even.

“ _Un te quiero, una caricia y un adios._ ”

Rising to his feet, he wipes his hand on a nearby rag, smearing old grease slipping from the rag to his filthy fingertips.

At the door, a woman with long, strawberry blonde hair peers into the room. “Stiles?” she calls. Her voice bounces, slapping from side to side off the sheet-metal walls of the makeshift hovel.

“Lydia!” he cheers. “Come in, come in!”

“ _Un ligero equipaje para tan largo viaje_.”

Her nose wrinkles. “What are you listening to?”

“I dunno,” the man replies lightly, grinning over at the old wind-up record player. “It didn’t come with a case.”

Grabbing at the needle, she sniffs happily as the music comes to a stop, then reaches forward to slow the spinning vinyl. “That is far from worth an entire ration card. I hope you got something else in your trade.”

“You wound me.”

“Stiles.”

“Vinyl is expensive,” he defends weakly, bracketing his hands against his thighs as he rises to his feet.

“Not so expensive that it calls for three days of rations,” Lydia drawls snootily. Turning to the man, her hands rest against her waist as her hips slant to the side. “Did everything go well?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, then grabs at a sheer sheet draped over a lump in the corner, pulling it aside to reveal a sleek, silver racing bike. “Maintained and lubed,” he tells her tiredly. His fingers come up to trace along the front tire, where a slim box has been fitted to the wheel. “Affixing the magnet gave me a bit of trouble, since glue and screws are pretty hard to come by, but old man Boyd Jr. had some extra 3M 90 he had lying around.”

“Will rain bother it?”

“It should be fine.” Eyes fixed on the bike, he sighs. “If anyone sees you riding this-” he manages to get out before she cuts him off with an angry scoff.

“I didn’t get it from you,” Lydia finishes aptly. Purse sliding gracefully down her arm, she reaches in to retrieve two Snickers bars, the wrappers crisp and smooth despite the faded label. “You’ll get the last two after I give her a ride,” the girl informs him evenly, tucking her purse back under her arm before turning to the bike. With a casual flick of her hair, she grabs the handlebars and guides the bicycle out through the hammered sheet metal door, propped wide open to admit a small, pleasant breeze.

Once beneath the red needles of the California Redwood trees that cluster about the empty street, Lydia goes to mount the bike, only for Stiles to race up, arms waving, to stop her.

“Wait,” he urges her quickly. “You need to check the hub dynamo first.”

“Stiles?”

“What?”

“English.”

The man rolls his eyes, then grabs at the bike to turn it over. His fingers rest at the center of the back wheel, where a large silver hub has been affixed to the center axle. “This is your hub dynamo,” he tells her. “When this,” he taps the magnet affixed to the tire, “passes by this,” his finger snaps to the opposing lump glued to the seatstay, “then you get electricity – as you already know going by the look you're giving me right now – which then charges the hub dynamo and spins your wheel a bit for you and charges your flashlight.”

“Which means I have to pedal,” she replies condescendingly.

“Yeah, sure,” he drawls back snappishly. “Or you could just turn over your bike and spin the wheels a bit to charge it, which is easier.” Grabbing the textured pedal, he rotates it in lazy circles, grinning smugly as the lamp affixed between the handlebars sputters to life. Reaching for the handle-break, he draws the wheels to a slow stop before turning to the woman with a grin. The lamp continues to shine, undeterred, for a few long seconds before fading to a gentle glow and sputtering out entirely. “Provided you don’t crash into anything, you should be fine.”

Lydia looks decidedly uneasy as she suggests, “And if I do crash?”

He shrugs. “Then bring it to me and I’ll fix it.”

She remains silent at this, eyes set on the hub dynamo that shines brightly beneath the noon sun.

Rising to his feet, Stiles brushes the needles from his pants. “Just a reminder that this is an improper division of supplies. Dynamos are for people with asthma or heart disease, and if you tell anyone I _will_ be arrested.”

“Can you teach me how to fix it?”

The man grimaces, glancing between the hub and the head of long, strawberry blonde hair kneeling beside it. “Depends. Do you want to spend six months learning about bicycles?”

She shakes her head angrily. “I’m on a time limit.”

“A time limit for what?”

“Just a time limit.”

**…**

With the sky gone to black and the stars shining through the clouds, Stiles pedals cautiously through the dark streets of Beacon Hills. He swerves down the road with open caution, narrowly avoiding gravel and piles of horse shit. House after house he passes, windows dark aside from the soft, familiar off yellow glow of government-distributed solar-charged heaters. It’s a while before Stiles pulls out in front of a modest two-story house, climbing off his bike and walking it up to the porch.

His fingers fumble with the lock, fighting with the chain that swings and clinks before he wraps it securely through the frame and tire. Stepping away, he hops over to the stairs. His shoes slap slowly up the steps, taking two at a time at an exhausted sort of hop. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the door is wrenched open with a tired, “I’m home.”

“Welcome back,” a Latino man greets, peering out of the kitchen. “Anything happen today?”

“Well, Lydia Martin picked up her bike,” Stiles replies dryly. “And apparently she doesn’t like Spanish Ballads.”

The older man rolls his eyes. “You were playing that record again?” he teases, stepping back into the kitchen.

“Well, yeah. What else am I supposed to do? The shed is so quiet.” Toeing off his shoes, he pads slowly over to the kitchen, peering around the older man at the deck of cards strewn across the counter.

“I dunno. Listen to Hendrix?”

“Guitars give me headaches,” Stiles reminds him dryly. “Besides, the world is ending. We don’t have to pretend to be music connoisseurs any more. Leave that to the Hipsters.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Turning back to his cards, the Latino man moves a seven to an eight and the conversation dries up.

Retreating back into the living room, Stiles heaves a sigh and flops onto the couch, fixing the blank TV with a long, lingering look before drifting off to sleep.

**…**

“Dinner time!”

Stiles jerks awake, legs shooting to the side and throwing him off the couch with a wail of distress.

“I’ve got a surprise for everyone,” a woman announces, holding a cloth bag above her head as she steps through the front door and into the living room.

At the kitchen table, an older man glances up from a stack of papers weakly illuminated by a solar lawn ornament. “A surprise, Melissa?” he asks, eyebrows angled suspiciously.

“Yes, a surprise.” Spinning on her heel, she motions for the man in front of the couch with a laugh. “Come on, Stiles. Scott-” She turns to the adjacent room with a smile. “You too.”

As the men step into the dining room, they share a look before taking seats.

“I present to you…” Settling the bag on the table, she places her hands in either of the holes and drags the sides down with a sung fanfare. “Oranges!”

Mixed shouts emerge from all corners of the table.

Stiles grins. “Holy shit.”

“Mind your language,” the older man warns.

“I thought all the trees around here were too diseased to bear fruit,” Scott gasps, snatching up one as it rolls out of the bag and bounces towards him.

“A woman, Guadavela, came through town on horseback,” she tells them warmly. “She rode all the way from the Southern tip of Mexico to get a container to as many towns along the west coast as she could when she heard America didn’t have any fruit. She’s hoping to offset any Scurvy. Apparently they had some issues with it in Washington a while back.”

“That was nice of her,” Scott coos, grabbing up a fruit with eager fingers.

Fumbling desperately for one of the oranges, Stiles eyes it suspiciously as his hands close around a fruit. He turns it over several times, nails trailing cautiously over the rind. “Doesn’t look like there are bugs, either.”

“No bugs,” Melissa confirms happily. “No bugs, no mold, and no disease.”

“This is kind of too good to be true,” Stiles murmurs uneasily even as his nails dig into the rind. He works carefully to peel away the skin, orange zest working its way into his fingers as he pulls aside the skin. “They could be trying to kill us for all we know. Cull the population. More oxygen for them.”

The Latino woman rolls her eyes. “Trust me; Mexico would be the last country to do something like that.”

“I dunno. What about Canada?” Stiles offers in all seriousness. “Wouldn’t they be the last?”

She chuckles. “Go to Quebec and try saying that without a hint of sarcasm.” At her right, the older man scoffs. She levels him with a dry smile. “Oh? Is there something you’d like to share with the table, Sheriff Stilinski?”

“I’m off duty,” the man reminds her softly.

“Okay then, _darling_ ,” Melissa corrects with a coo. “Anything you’d like to share with the table?”

Sheriff Stilinski sighs, then mutters, “I was just thinking those bastards from British Columbia have been quiet.”

The table erupts in howl, table slaps, and hoots of amusement. An arm winds around the man’s shoulder, pulling him into a short sideways-embrace before they all return to their meal.

**May 5th, 2015**

Stiles slaps angrily at the trilling alarm clock, silencing the eager scream of hammers and bells.

As a sweet silence settles into the room, light listing along the floor towards the single bed, Scott leans over the side of the mattress to whisper, “Your turn to wind it.”

The younger man groans, slapping a hand over his face to block out the light.

**...**

The morning passes slowly, as if struggling uselessly through a pool of molasses. Outside, the sun shines brightly off the redenned needles of the trees and the bright picket fence the neighbors manage to maintain despite water and cleaning solution shortages. (Stiles suspects they have a large, secret store of pre-diluted 30 Seconds stowed away in their basement, lying in wait for the rain to wash it away.)

It is this bright white picket fence that Stiles rides by when he leaves for work, trailing his fingers against the neat white paint as his bike gains momentum. Muttering old lyrics to himself as he passes the line of their property, he strikes off down the street, bobbing his head back and forth to the beat of the imaginary music. He slows as he passes Scott, plodding slowly up the hill on foot, wheezing slightly.

"Hey, Scotty," he greets, drawing to a near stop beside the man as he turns a circle in the street. "You do know I reinforced the back spokes of this baby, right? I can give you rides again. Old man Boyd won't care if I'm a few minutes late."

"I'm good walking," Scott wheezes, waving him off with a hand.

“It's seriously no trouble.”

“Go to work, Stiles,” the man insists once more. “I'll be fine.”

“Fine? How many puffs do you have left on that inhaler of yours?” Stiles asks vindictively. “Nine? Ten?”

“Forty-two.”

“Yeah, and when do you think you'll be able to get another one? Next year? Do you think there’ll be any left?” Leaning back, the younger man motions for his companion to hop on the spokes. “Get on the bike, bro. Save yourself some breath.”

**...**

The hills are brutal, but Stiles manages to make it all the way to Scott’s work, drop him off, and pedal madly to the small shed just as a blond man in a uniform steps up to the door.

“Cutting it a little close, Stilinski.”

“I had an errand to run,” he counters brusquely. His tools are right where he left them, balancing precariously on the edge of a small stool on the far side of the shed. As as he makes his way over to them, the officer follows him closely.

As he settles into his seat, the officer breaks out in a wide smile. “Good to see you, Stiles.”

“Likewise, Parrish.”

From his seat at the desk, an older black man grumbles,  “Keep it down. I’m working, here.”

“Yes, Mr. Boyd,” Stiles replies politely, eyes sliding toward the ceiling as his fingers twitch toward his tools.

Sidling up to the younger man, Parrish settles his hands against his knees, grinning weakly. “Little bird tells me you’re doing a job for Lydia,” he whispers softly. “Any weight to that?”

“I _did_ a job,” Stiles corrects, fixing his eyes on the twisted axle between his fingers. He spares a hand to grab at a monkey wrench and a clamp, eyeing the small shop table with a roll of his eyes. “All done, now. Your little bird can eat its seed.” Rising to his feet, he brings the axle with him, crossing the room with a few choice steps around his tool box.

“When?” the man asks, his officer browns shifting as he moves to follow the man through the shop.

“Why do you care?”

“Because no one’s seen her bike, Stilinski.”

“What she does with her bike is her business,” Stiles deflects dryly. He grimaces, twisting the clamp between his fingers until the axle squeals, one side flush to the table as the rest arcs casually in the wrong direction.

“Stiles, she’s…” Parrish pauses, glancing to old man Boyd for a moment, pursing his lips before admitting softly, “She’s been trading for things in the last year. Tarps. Rope. A sleeping bag. Small stuff, but...”

“If she wants to leave you can’t stop her,” Stiles points out sharply.

“If she goes after Jackson-”

“She’s not that stupid,” the mechanic interrupts sharply. “Give her some credit. Jesus. Yeah, they went out. That doesn’t mean she’s going to bike 3,000 miles across the US to see him.”

“But-”

“Just ask her, dude!” Stiles snaps, abandoning all attempts at keeping quiet. “If you’re so worried just ask her.” Screwing up his face into a parody of a pleasant grin, the man giggles.  ‘Hey, Lydia! Just wondering – are you going to leave town to bike across 3,000 miles of deserted highway, occasionally populated with wild animals and desperate people, with no constant source of food or water, to see your ex boyfriend, who you obviously like more than me?’ There. Easy as pie.”

“I did ask her!” Parrish scoffs back.

Turning back to the axle, Stiles slips the monkey wrench over the lip, tightening it over the sheet of metal before attempting to bend it back into place. “And?”

“She did that… hair flip thing.”

“See?” the man drawls. “I told you. She likes her ex more than you.”

“I’m being serious!”

“And so am I!” Stiles snaps bitterly, pivoting his elbow to bear forcefully down on the wrench. “Where she goes…” He grunts, shifting his weight down on the axle. “... is none of our business. And… in case you hadn’t… _noticed_ …” Hopping up onto his toes, he shifts his palm over the handle with a grimace, and the piece gives a great groan, bending back into place. He heaves an exhausted gasp. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not making it our business. If she gets herself killed, that’s her life, not ours.” Slapping the wrench on the table, he shakes his head, throwing the officer a dry grimace. “Look, I have work to do.”

Parrish opens his mouth to say more, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He glances behind him, where Mr. Boyd stands.

“You’ve done your round, boy,” he insists quietly. “It’s time you’ve moved on.”

The officer gapes for a small second before agreeing softly. “Yes, Mr. Boyd.” He strides from the room quickly, throwing Stiles one last look before closing the shed behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. We have customers.”

“We… don’t have customers, Mr. Boyd.”

“Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean we don’t have customers.”

“What-”

Boyd retreats back to his table, humming a soft tune under his breath.

Stiles stares, but returns to the axle.

**...**

The line for the ration station is long, as the evening hours have wound on as work comes to an end. Stiles waits patiently for his turn, waving pleasantly to Scott as he walks sluggishly up to the back of the line. Overhead, clouds hang heavily over the procession, and Stiles grabs at his shirt collar, turning it up against the breeze.

Finally, he draws to the front, presenting his hour card with a wide grin. “Stiles Stilinski,” he tells them softly.

“Social Security number?” the woman – Allison, her nametag reads – asks with a wide grin.

Leaning forward, Stiles murmurs, “119-19-6135.”

“And you have worked how many hours this week?”

“Fifty-three.”

She glances over the sheet before nodding with a grin. “Great. Here are your ration cards.”

As he leaves the line, Lydia approaches with a grimace. “Stiles,” she greets without looking at his cards.

“Lydia,” he greets in reply, grabbing his bike from the rack off to the side.

“Would you mind giving me a ride home?” she asks.

“Uh, sure,” Stiles agrees quietly, shoving the cards into the inside pocket of his hoodie, glancing cautiously at the cloudy sky as he zips it up. Peering back at the line, he wave to Scott, sandwiched miserably between two little old ladies as the first few drops of rain begin to drop the the ground in eager little spatters. He settles one foot on the pedal, turning back to his companion with a wide grin. “So, where is your house exactly?”

“You know where I live.”

He blows a raspberry. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Just go, Stiles,” she demands, exasperated.

He takes off, trying to ignore a few drops of rain that land precariously on his outstretched hands.

**...**

The ride across town is a long one. The breeze is sour and stale in the air. The scent of decaying leaves thick on their tongues. In the dying evening light, the sun darts quickly through the trees and into their eyes, shifting in and out of their vision until it dips below the horizon and the sky bleeds pink.

They step in to the house just as the rain picks up.

Neat and clean, the foyer is just as well tended as the man remembers it ever being, sans stray partiers or blasting music.

“So what do you have to…” Stiles trails off as she leads him into her room, sweeping the door aside to reveal a four foot tall, very living, very green apple tree. “Oh my god,” he gapes, hands reaching out behind him to find clumsy purchase on the door frame. “How did you...”

“Carefully,” Lydia replies quietly. “This subject is nearly a year old. I simply take a branch from an existing tree with the disease and work from there. Last year, I tried a mix involving vinegar. It seemed to take.”

“Wait just a second,” the man squeaks quickly, eyes locked on the small buds dotting the tree’s branches. Flowers, he realizes quietly. Those are going to be fruit. “Are you telling me you cured it?”

“I’m not telling you, I’m showing you,” she corrects blithely. “Now I just have to get the cure to D.C.”

Stiles stares at her openly for a long time before opening his mouth to announce rather intelligently, “Nnn… wah?”

“Close your mouth. I don’t need to see your tongue.”

His jaw clicks shut.

“I was originally planning just to go myself, but crossing the US alone on a bicycle isn’t the safest on multiple regards.”

“No shit.”

Her eyes snap to his, holding them for a long, intimidating second before turning back to the tree. “I’m going to need someone to keep my bike in good condition. Someone to keep me in good condition. And I’m going to need someone with a gun.” Stepping over to her closet, she opens it to reveal a large map tacked to the back wall and a large tub filled to the brim with brightly colored packages. As she takes the map down and spreads it out on the bed, Stiles’ eyes the large tub of candy in awe, lingering on the Reese’s sitting delicately atop a small pile of Almond Joys.

“It’s about 2,900 miles from here to D.C.,” she drones, snapping worn, but lovingly manicured fingers to get his attention.

The man spins, eyeing her carefully. “What makes you think I’ll help?”

“Oh Stiles,” she coos with uncharacteristic sweetness, turning to face him. “What makes you think you won’t?"

“Because I have a life here. And I kind of need food to live. Which means working, because I need food rations.”

“What, like these?” Lydia deadpans, snapping a drawer open with one hand and reaching in with the other to reveal a stack of ration cards, displaying then between her fingers. She fans them out mockingly, picking at them until they fall evenly into place.

“How did you-”

“Vinyl has a high resale rate, I’m told,” she gloats. “And my grandmother happened to have a good ear – and an entire room dedicated to said ear at our lake house.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not.”

“Jesus…” He settles heavily against a bookshelf, glancing from the tree to the fan of ration cards. “Okay. I’m in. What next?”

“We’re going to need two more people in on this,” Lydia tells him simply. “Or just a nurse with a gun.”

“Why do we need a nurse with a gun?”

“Because our bodies aren’t machines,” she states simply, tucking the ration cards back in the drawer. “Not to mention the riff-raff we might run into.”

“Why don’t we just bring Parrish?” Stiles suggests. “He’d be glad to protect us from rapists and murderers.”

“We’re on a mission to save the world,” Lydia snaps in reply. “If this were a movie, it’d be a slice-of-life/adventure. As competent as he is, Parrish would spend more time attempting to turn it into an Epic Romance than actually guarding our asses.”

“Okay then,” the man consents softly. “So… what are we looking for?”

“Someone with experience.”

Stiles purses his lips, glancing at the ration cards one more time before turning his attention back to Lydia. “Like my dad?”

“Preferably someone without obligations to the city and a history of Heart Disease.”

A grimace curls in the corners of his lips, but his head bobs firmly in agreement. “So…” He trails off, fingers twitching in and out of his palm nervously. Waving one hand to the bed, he asks softly, “May I?”

“Go ahead,” she offers monotonously.

He settles onto the comforter with a groan. Burying his face in his hands, Stiles’ breath slows, hissing between his fingers and echoing in the space. “Okay,” he murmurs. “We need someone with medical training, but who doesn’t have a permanent position at the hospital. A nurse’s assistant? Someone young without as much experience? I can probably ask Melissa – Scott’s mom – about that.”

“And what about the guard?” Lydia drawls sharply, settling beside him on the comforter. Her dress flattens over carefully preserved leggings; the holes patched with short threads and lighter fabrics. “I can’t ask Parrish. He’ll just volunteer himself. And the worst part is, he fits a lot of the criteria. He doesn’t have a lot of obligations, he’s not at risk for a heart attack, he has military experience-”

“Wait,” Stiles insists suddenly. “Military experience. Veterans meet at the hospital once a week for PTSD counselling.”

“PTSD counselling?” Lydia repeats skeptically. “Seriously, Stiles?”

“What?”

“No.”

**...  
**

Riding back up to the house, Stiles dismounts from his bike to walk it quickly up to the front door. He drops it to the porch with a clatter, grabbing at the door knob and stepping over the threshold with a contemplative scowl. But as he strides into the living room, his eyes land on the heavy form draped over the couch cushions. Arms akimbo, legs falling half off the couch, Scott’s limp form commands the length of the sofa with a limp vengeance.

“What’s-”

“He had an attack.”

Glancing away from the limp form of his friend, Stiles’ gaze lands curiously on Melissa at the mouth of the kitchen before his attention turns back to the Latino man. A hand finds its way to his forehead, combing through his fringe and back along the length of his scalp. “Jesus,” he groans. “I knew he was having a bad day.”

“You’re home late,” the woman segways suddenly. “Were you... with anyone?”

The man turns back to her with the briefest of nods. “Sorta.”

“Was it Lydia?”

Again, he nods.

Stepping over to the table, she pats the tabletop expectantly. Her wedding ring clatters loudly against the wood, echoing in the small room. “Take a seat.”

“It’s not what you think,” he argues quickly, eyes turning to the floor.

Melissa’s eyes narrow curiously, combing over his expression. “What’s wrong, Stiles?” she inquires softly.

“Lydia found a cure for the trees.”

Her eyebrows raise, eyes widening slightly as her mouth drops open in a shocked, happy ‘o.’ But as she takes a smooth, easy breath, she manages a quiet, “Stiles, why do you make that sound like a bad thing?”

“We need to get it to DC.”

“That’s… three thousand miles.”

Stiles winces. “Technically it’s two-thousand nine-hundred.”

“And you’ll be crossing that on… What?  A bike.”

Taking a hesitant step forward, Stiles’ fingers curl around the back of a chair, dragging it out just enough for his feet to shuffle up to it. His knees drop him perilously onto the edge of the worn cushion, and the chair creaks ominously as his weight settles on its legs. “Yeah, I guess. And…”

Melissa doesn’t join him, deigning to remain standing. “This is a big thing,” she tells him, voice heavy. “It’s okay to feel conflicted.”

The man nods hesitantly. “The whole ride here I was just wondering… Are we even going to make it? Lydia has it all planned out, right? The route, ration cards – everything. And apparently she needs me on the trip because I’m a bike mechanic, but if I leave who will take Scott-”

“Scott is not your responsibility,” the woman interjects sharply, cutting him abruptly off.

“What?”

“You’ve been coddling him,” Melissa explains quietly. “Yes, he has asthma, but he’s a big boy. He can get to and from work by himself, inhaler or no inhaler. Okay?” She stares at him pointedly for a while, waiting, and only when he nods weakly in reply does she continue, drawing a chair out from the table to take a seat. “Okay. Now, let’s talk about this trip.  It can’t just be you and Lydia.”

“We were actually hoping you could help us with that.”

“Oh?”

He nods fervently. “Do you have any personnel at the hospital you don’t desperately need? Like a volunteer? Someone who would be able to bike to DC at the drop of a hat?”

“Well…” She trails off, leaning back into her chair with a heavy slump, unwashed curls falling over thin shoulders. “Honestly, the only person I can really think of is Laura Hale – one of our nursing assistants. She might be willing to join you. She’s strange, but she’s smart and dedicated. If Lydia’s found a cure, Laura won’t hesitate to join you.”

Stiles gapes. “Won’t hesitate? It’s three thousand miles.”

“Laura won’t care,” she replies evenly. “She’s the type to figure if the ends justify the means she’ll jump first and deal with the consequences as they come. If she has to bike three thousand miles across the continental US to save the world, she won’t hesitate.”

“Oh…”

Leaning forward, the woman rests her arms against the table, sliding a hand into her hair to support her head as she looks Stiles dead in the eye. “That can’t be everything, can it? What else do you need?”

The man’s eyes turn to the table nervously, drawing along the length as me murmurs, “Honestly? Someone with a gun.”

Melissa’s eyebrows arch delicately. “A gun,” she parrots lowly.

Stiles shrugs. “Road can be dangerous, you know?”

“So, someone with a gun,” she deadpans. “If you’re bringing Laura Hale you might as well bring her uncle, Peter,” she suggests, pulling away from the table to collapse back into the chair. “He was a Marine, and the only person outside the police force I can tell you has a gun on him. Right now.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess… if they really sign on that settles everything except…” He sighs. “How am I going to tell the others? Dad and Scott?”

Reaching her hand across the length of table between them, she settles he fingers against the bridge of his knuckles with a wan grin. “You leave that to me.”

**May 6th, 2015**

A whisper in the trees lingers in the air; the subtle hush of the rarest of breezes hissing through needles and gently tugging at strawberry blonde tresses.

Stiles glances surreptitiously toward Lydia, admiring the shine of her hair beneath the golden spring sun. His fingers tighten incrementally against his handlebars. Gripping it firmly, he lifts it above a long string of roots crawling along the ground. “This isn’t much of a driveway,” he points out dryly, eyes flicking from the length of glittering hair to admire the woman’s arms as she maneuvers around a new set of roots.

“This isn’t the driveway,” she replies evenly. “Thanks to erosion, the driveway has turned into a creek.”

“Huh. No kidding?”

Lydia hums an affirmative, face turning up to soak in a patch of sun seeping through the trees.

For a long second, Stiles can only stare.

In his moment of distraction, his foot catches on a raised patch of roots, sending him and his bike clattering to the ground in a pile of metal and flesh.

Glancing back at him, Lydia rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”

“I’m fine,” he announces, stumbling to his feet and righting his bike with a nervous laugh. “Totally fine.”

“Good to know,” she drawls back, pushing her bike up a small incline before jogging carefully down a small hill.

Stiles follows at a slower pace, gaze sweeping the ground cautiously as his feet putter along with uneven steps. “So, how do you know what direction we’re going, anyway? We’re very literally surrounded by trees. It’s not exactly second star to the right and straight on towards the creepy mansion in the middle of the woods, you know?”

“I know where we’re going, okay?” she replies nonchalantly.

“How in the holy hell do you know where we’re going?” he snaps back. “I can’t even tell where we _came from_.”

“I used to come out here a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she snaps defensively.

“Because?”

“Just because.”

“Okay, then.” Backing away from the topic, a small hum at his lips, Stiles glances about the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. “About how long until we get there?”

Shaking her head with a sigh, Lydia guides her bike around a large cluster of rocks and through a particularly thick line of trees.

Stiles is quick to follow, jogging up behind her bike and seeing for the first time the line of a house through the forestry. “Oh, wow, officially stupid question.”

The woman doesn’t reply, instead leading him into a wide clearing. They stride up to the front porch, parking their bikes beside the stairs. Lydia takes a moment to reach into the box strapped to her bike rack, digging out the small, green branch before stepping slowly onto the panelling with an exchange of nervous looks.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Lydia rolls her eyes at the nervous tone before turning to the door, expression determined, before knocking firmly three times.

The woman who answers is of medium height. Her hair is pitch; eyes sharp in the dim light of the entryway. Gaze drawing down to the branch, then back to Lydia’s eyes, she smiles slowly. “Hello, Miss Martin,” she greets. “And…”

“Stiles,” Lydia introduces sharply.

“Stiles,” she repeats amusedly. “Aren’t you the Sheriff’s boy?”

“That seems to be what I’m known best for, yeah,” he drawls back.

The woman nods, then steps to the side, waving them in with a manicured hand. “Come on in. You’re here for Laura, right?”

“For the most part, yes,” Lydia agrees lightly.  She follows the path of the hand swiftly, stepping into the foyer with a tense line through her jaw.

Stiles follows at a hyper jaunt, hopping over the threshold with an eager grin.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” the dark haired woman tells them, closing the door in their wake. “Laura and Peter should be down in a minute.”

“Laura and Peter are already here,” a smooth voice corrects.

Three pairs of eyes turn from the threshold to the living room, where two figures sit, comfortably reclining on one of two sofas. And for a moment there is silence.

Rising from the sofa, Peter scoffs. “Well, I feel the need to nip this in the bud.”

“Peter,” Laura snaps.

“I just don’t see what’s in it for me.”

“Really?” Stiles drawls. “You don’t see saving the world as something in it for you?”

“No, I don’t. In fact, it’s all rather confusing,” the older man drones, nodding his head theatrically. “Why go all the way to DC? Why not just send a letter?”

“Because I did send them a letter,” Lydia drawls, shifting her weight casually to one foot,  “And they replied with skepticism and misogyny.”

“Meaning?”

“They didn’t believe me because I am a ‘young woman from California with no references.’”

Peter shrugs. “And I don’t see why that’s my problem.”

“Goddamn it, we’re literally running out of oxygen and you’re saying it’s not your problem?” Laura snaps. Turning to their guests, she raises a finger pointedly. “I’m in.”

“You can’t be serious,” Peter drawls, turning to his niece with a grimace.

“ _I am going_ ,” she hisses back. Locking her gaze with Lydia’s, she nods. “Let me know when you plan to leave.”

“Thank you,” Lydia tells her earnestly, a small grin budding in the apples of her cheeks.

“Great,” Peter drawls.  “We might as well kill her now. Save some yippie with a shotgun the trouble.”

“Well, if you’re not going, I’m going,” the dark haired woman announces loudly drawing all eyes to her wide, amused grin. “And if I’m going, you’re watching the kids.”

Peter flinches. “No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_.”

**May 10th, 2015**

“You’re going to need to find water,” Scott murmurs. His voice is gentle promise in the small bedroom, breeze whispering sweetly through the open window. And yet the empty space between walls seems to fill with the noise. Too big. Too small.

Too loud.

It’s so quiet, after the apocalypse.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers, scared to break the silence. It weighs the very air. If it breaks, it might crush him.

Through the window, the moon  sparkles. Half is visible in the night sky, light flooding through the window and illuminating the room oh so softly.

“In fourth grade,” the Latino man murmurs, “we went to that weird summer camp.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” the younger man chuckles. “You ate four slugs and threw up all over the counsellor.”

“And you failed survival skills. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Shifting to the side on the bed, Stiles peers over the edge of the mattress. His eyes flicks from his friend and the trio of couch cushions piled beneath him, crinkling minutely with affection. “It won’t be just me,” he assures under his breath. “I’ll have Lydia, Laura, and Peter with me.”

“Yeah, I guess you will…” Blowing out a low sigh, Scott smiles weakly. “I’m going to miss you, dude.”

Voice warbling, the younger man swallows heavily, lower lip trembling as he admits, “I’m going to miss you, too, Scotty.”

**May 11th, 2015**

“This is going to be so fun with you there,” Laura bubbles sarcastically, hopping down the front steps of her house with a large, loaded pannier sandwiched under one arm.

Following on her heels, Peter heaves a small, equally unenthusiastic sigh. “This isn’t supposed to be fun,” he reminds her blithely. “May I remind you that the world is literally on our shoulders?”

Lydia huffs, unamused, as the pair joins Stiles and her on the packed dirt road. “Bags all packed?” she inquires as they load their things on the racks above their rear tires. “Water filters? Canteens? Extra underwear?” Her eyes flick anxiously to the small divot in the older man’s shirt that betrayed the faint outline of a gun strapped to his waist. “Ammo?”

“Helmets?” Stiles adds, glancing to everyone, confused to find their heads all bare. “None? Really?”

“It messes up my hair,” Lydia complains.

Laura’s eyes roll dismissively. Reaching back, she runs her fingers through the mess of her hair, tugging it into a messy body tail. It sweeps away from her neck, falling indelicately down her back, strands trailing haphazardly across the shoulders of her loose flannel.

Edging over to Stiles, the older man offers his hand stiffly. “We weren’t properly introduced,” he begins somewhat cordially. “I’ve heard about you; the Stilinski boy.”

“Stiles,” he corrects, taking the offered hand. “Nice to be properly introduced, dickbag.”

“Alright, get on your bikes,” Lydia commands them all loudly, climbing into her seat.

“Roger,” Stiles replies easily, hopping onto his own with a grin. But as he goes to follow her as she takes off, settling his foot atop the pedal, he screeches angrily as he foot hits thin air and the spikes tear through the back of his calf, hiking his jeans high up on his leg and ripping soundly through the top few layers of skin.

Laura spends the next ten minutes disinfecting and wrapping the six inch gash, and Peter heaves a series of long, put-upon sighs.

“This is going to be a long trip.”

**...**

The group hasn’t made it to the highway, but Stiles falls behind on the first hill, wheezing and gasping for dear life. It’s when Peter grows tired of his noises that he pulls them to a stop, rigging a rope between their bikes to tow the younger man behind him like a particularly limp kite.

“Remind me again why we’re bringing him,” he mutters, not any particular sort of quiet, as Lydia pulls up to his side, mounting her bike.

“Because if any of our bikes break down we’re fucked,” she replies without a trace of humor.

**...**

They stop twice for meals, munching somewhat miserably on dry, unsweetened honey-granola bars and sipping water. Then, when the sun peeks beneath the long stretch of highway, they pull to the side of the road and set up their tents.

“I’m just saying,” Stiles drawls loudly as they begin propping up the domes, vinyl swishing in the cool mountain breeze, “that family should stick together. You and Peter should totally room – or, you know, tent – together.”

“Eat my shorts” Laura snaps back with a roll of her eyes, rising to her feet and stomping the tent spike into the ground.

“Eat my shorts?” the younger man parrots amusedly. “Really? It’s 2015.”

The woman huffs, unamused. “Do not even with me, okay?” she drawls.

“Attention everyone,” Peter calls.

Their heads swing around, watching the man carefully as he digs out a long string of rope from deep inside the black hole of his pannier.

“We have one rope, aside from what Stiles and I are using,” he begins simply. “We will be taking it in turns from youngest to oldest. In the morning, if it is your turn, you get up and bring down our food from wherever we tied it the night before. Then you wind it and put it with your things. When we make camp you pull it out of your bag. You tie up what food we haven’t eaten, and then you leave it. The next morning, duties cycle to the next person. Am I clear?”

A small string of mumbles meet his words.

“I said, ‘Am I clear?’”

“This isn’t the Marines,” Laura spits. “Stop trying to treat us like cadets.”

**May 12th, 2015**

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you an important message from Laura’s front tire.

_Hiss._

_Spit._

_Pop._

Thank you.

“Mother f-” Laura screeches, fingers drawing sharply against the brakes to come to a screaming, furious stop. But even as her tires grab at the road it skews suddenly sideways. The rubber squeals loudly against the pavement, and the frame tips angrily to the side, throwing Laura forward. In one smooth movement she leaps off the bike, arms akimbo, before her feet slap the ground furiously, taking her down the road at a sprint. She makes it twenty feet before letting loose an angry string of swears and coming to a clumsy, hopping stop.

Drawing around the woman, Peter glances from his niece’s bike to the woman herself. “What happened?”

“I ran over a nail!” she shrieks. “A stupid ass nail!”

At Peter’s side, Stiles’ bike squeaks to a stop. Leaning forward on the handlebars, the younger man hums amusedly as his head casts a shadow over his wrists. “A nail?” he repeats curiously.

“Can you fix it?”

Stiles scoffs. “Can I fix it,” he mimicks nasally, mouth wide and comical. He sets his kickstand with one fluid solid flick of his ankle. Scrambling stiffly off his seat, he strides up to the bike lying abandoned on the ground.  “Of course I can fix it. It’s just a stupid hole.”

Up front, Lydia scoffs. “Well, how long is it going to take?”

“Not seconds, obviously,” he replies sharply. “I’m going to have to patch the tube, and see what can be done about the tire.”

“So what?” she prompts again. “Five minutes? Ten?”

“Around twenty.”

“Alright.” Glancing from Peter to Laura, Lydia shrugs. “Let’s take a meal.”

**...**

Only as the sun begins to dip beneath the sky, and they have long since passed through Burnt Ranch, does Lydia hold her hand up and call, “Stop.”

As Peter slows, Stiles’ bike abruptly loses balance as his fingers tap weakly on the brakes, sending him flying to the ground. Wheezing far too hard to complain, he sprawls across the road, helmet tapping sharply against the pavement. “See that?” he gasps. “That is why you wear a helmet!”

“We making camp?” Laura tosses her hair away from her throat, low ponytail winding around her shoulders.  Her fingers drop to her flannel, pinching the collar to pull it closed against a bitter breeze.

Hands smoothing along the heavy plastic framing the Dynamo’s display, Lydia hovers over a small black button before pressing it cautiously. The screen bursts into a brilliant glow, displaying a series of number clusters boldly. “We’ve gone just over sixty miles today,” she announces softly. Her chin nudges slowly over her shoulder, and her eyes light on Stiles gasping wetly on the ground.

Laura’s gaze turns along with her’s, but Peter’s remains firmly on the younger woman. Lydia glances up to meet it hesitantly.

Eyes rolling subtly, the man leans back from his handlebars with a shrug. “It’s not our goal,” he begins nonchalantly, “But it’s good for the first day.”

“We’re… stopping?” Stiles manages between wheezes.

“Yes, Stiles, we’re stopping,” Laura agrees dryly, leaning to the side to rest her weight fully on one leg, swinging the other over the bike to settle beside it. Her foot shoots out, sliding between the bike and the kickstand, and it settles on the ground with a small, insignificant squeal.

“Awe-so-ome,” he strings out in a long hiss. “Ohgodmylegsarelimpnoodles.”

“Pretty sure you’re a limp noodle,” Lydia mutters under her breath.

Laura chuckles.

“We just biked, like, sixty miles,” Stiles whines. “I reserve the right to be a limp noodle, thanks.”

“If you don’t do some stretches you’re going to be a limp noodle tomorrow, too,” Laura warns him lightly, dismounting smoothly from her bike without a hint of stiffness.

Hopping easily off his seat, Peter engages the kickstand with a quick flick of his shoe before his hands find the straps of his pannier. They click free quickly. His fingers dig at the seams, dragging a long tube of fabric from the dark confines of the bag. “The sooner you shut your mouths, the sooner we get the tents up, the sooner we can rest. So get your ass up.”

Stiles scoffs, attempting a weak salute with one limp arm. “Yes, sir.” Rolling stiffly onto his side, he pushes ineffectively at the ground, elbows wobbling from side to side as his arms strain.

Stepping around his bike, Laura leans forwards and grips his bicep firmly, dragging him up off the pavement to settle him on his feet.

For a moment Stiles' equilibrium flees in a panicked haste, leaving the man waving his free arm desperately for balance. But as his feet find the ground he gives one last surprised gasp before turning to Laura, mouth hanging wide. “Did you just-”

“Nurse’s assistant,” she reminds him with a singsong, flexing her arm proudly. There’s little in the way of definition. Her arm is smooth, absent of the subtle divots and bulging veins that come from muscle work. Stepping back over to her bike, she unties her flannel from her waist. She pulls it quickly over her shoulders, wiggling her arms and back like a land-bound fish until it settles into place. Leaning forward, she grabs at the ties of her pannier, unclipping it easily from her bike rack and hefting it over her shoulder, lugging it quickly to one of the softer looking patches of dead grass just off the highway.

Peter rolls his eyes, shaking his head as Laura takes up residence on the opposite shoulder of the highway. But his lips remain firmly closed as he discards the tent bag. His fingers grab at a withered branch, sweeping it from side to side across the “campsite,” sending smaller rocks and twigs flying before tossing the branch itself into one of the larger bushes. Grabbing up the bag, he drags the zipper down to reveal a series of poles and a folded length of vinyl.

“So, I have an alarm clock,” Laura announces suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. She holds it up on display. It’s small, round, and the stainless steel glints sharply in the daylight. “It’s wound, so we’re going to have to keep up on that. I’m thinking we should set it in turns. Whoever has to make breakfast turns it off and winds it. Is that okay with everyone?” A small round of agreeing grunts sound through the camp, and she grins. “Now what should we name it?”

“We’re not naming the alarm clock,” Lydia objects firmly.

“How about Finstock?” Stiles suggests.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Laura agrees.

“We are not naming it Finstock!” Lydia demands.

The older woman grins. “All in favor of naming it Finstock, say aye.”

“Aye,” Stiles announces quickly.

“All opposed, say nay.”

“Nay!” Lydia snaps.

Turning to the older man quickly sliding poles through long vinyl slits, Laura inquires, “Peter?”

Stomping firmly on a set of stakes, Peter shakes his head firmly before bending the poles into place, a tent popping suddenly from the ground to billow gently in the light California breeze. “Leave me out of this.”

**May 13th, 2015**

Between the shadow of the hill they sit below, and the gentle breeze that whistles sweetly through the camp, the temperature plummets a good twenty degrees as night falls. As soon as the bikes are settled and their tents propped, the four travelers cluster around the small stove Stiles hooks into Lydia's Dynamo. They leave it running even after they serve lightly roasted dehydrated vegetables, carefully rationing what few strips of jerky they have.

In the distance, a howl rings through the night.

Stiles jumps. “Think that’s a wolf?”

“Probably a Doberman,” Peter insists without looking away from the heater, taking another large bite of vegetables that crunch and scream between his teeth.

“My money’s on a Golden Retriever,” Laura counters.

“Saint Bernard,” Lydia insists.

Stiles glances between them, blinking. “What?”

“There are no wolves in California,” Peter drawls easily.

“Yeah, but they could have returned,” Stiles points out breathily. “Like, there are fewer people, now, and nature’s bouncing back a bit-”

“It’s not a wolf,” Laura insists around the last of her snap peas, swallowing them quickly before wiping down her plate with a damp rag. She drops it in the small bucket beside the camp stove, then rises to her feet. “Trust me.” Dusting off the back of her pants, she makes her way to the tent behind her, throwing the flap open wide before disappearing inside.

Stretching her arms out to her sides, a small yawn flutters from Lydia's wide open mouth. “Well, it’s about time we all head to bed. Long day tomorrow.”

Peter sighs, then follows suit, setting down his plate and wiping it quickly with the damp cloth before retreating into the opposite tent.

Watching them leave, Stiles glances from tent to tent curiously before turning back to the stove, hands outstretched for a few wafts of precious heat. He brings them back, burrowing his nose between his fingers and drawing a deep, shuddering breath.

“Hey.”

Stiles jumps, glancing behind him to peer at the older man through the relative darkness. “Yeah?”

From the light of the stove, Peter’s grimace hovers in the air like a beacon. “I didn’t sign up for a babysitting job. Don’t make it one.”

Turning his attention back to the stove, Stiles fumbles quickly to switch it off. His fingers slip away, brushing against Finstock, nearly knocking it off the makeshift table they’d constructed from a particularly large fallen branch before hopping to his feet and retreating into the tent with a hiss of discomfort. Pushing open the flap with fervently twitching fingers, the younger man steps into the dome with a grimace. “Damn it’s cold,” he complains loudly, pulling the flap closed behind him and zipping it up.

“Get used to it.”

Stiles sighs. Turning slowly in place, he quickly sets about stripping his hoodie. “We're heading into the desert,” he complains sharply. “It shouldn't be cold.”

“You obviously don’t know much about deserts.”

From the forest comes another long howl.

Stiles jumps. “Think it’ll climb the tree and get into our food?” he suggests, struggling with his jacket sleeves in the dark. Dragging it from his shoulders, he tosses it to the tarp crunching beneath his feet and begins to work at his shirt.

Peter snorts. “That won’t be a problem,” he drawls lazily, turning his nose into the curve of his arm with a groan.

“Why? Did you mark it with your urine?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

**May 14th, 2015**

On the third day of riding, as the sun begins to sink in the sky, the brush and trees give way to the occasional house, and the group cuts through the outskirts of Redding, California.

“Where do you think they have the ration station set up?” Laura asks, riding up beside Lydia, eyes glancing quickly away from the road to meet the younger woman’s gaze.

Lydia glances to her companion. Nodding cordially, she turns her attention back to the road. “It’ll probably be on this main street, Eureka Way, or near it,” she replies evenly. “The map said there was a YMCA along this stretch, so we’ll stop by there, first. If it isn’t, we’ll ask around.”

“Hopefully they won’t want anything for the info,” the older woman scoffs.

Over the following half hour the trees give way to suburbs. Before long they’re taking sharp corners; making their way through town toward the large YMCA sign rising above the houses like a particularly surprised ostrich head. When they finally arrive, Lydia holds her head high and dismounts from her bike.

“What’s going on?” Stiles stares out, shocked, at the great ocean of tents and body hair before them, attention lingering on the filthy stewpots and stained rags clinging to thin arms and hunger-thick bellies. “There’s gotta be, like, two hundred people here.”

Shoulders drawing back, Lydia strides into the crowd with a confident shake of her head.

“Hey, wait up,” Laura complains sharply, dismounting her own bike to follow at a light jog. Pulling up to the younger woman’s side, she slows to a steady pace, mirroring small, petite feet as they slap against the pitted blacktop. “There’s a thing called looking before you leap,” she hisses. “And this is not a leaping sort of situation.”

The men follow at a hop, guiding their bikes through the massive crowd with a suspicious glance in all directions.

“What if they attack us?”

“They won’t,” Lydia replies shortly. “They’re malnourished, and we need to make it to those doors. They’re not a threat.”

Laura turns her eyes on the crowd, wary. But as they draw close to the doors – wide, glass, shining in the daylight – the makeshift camp comes to an abrupt end, leaving a large, cleared perimeter around the building’s entrance. And as they stride up to it, pushing the doors wide open, a shiver rolls up and down Stiles’ spine.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses.

“Homeless population, probably,” Peter murmurs. “They would have come from smaller towns, or relocated from places where the ration station has been shut down.”

“Why would they shut down ration stations?”

“Same reason the government shuts anything down,” he replies sharply. “Money.”

Striding up to the reception window, Lydia clears her throat, earning a startled look from the man behind the counter. “We’d like to exchange some ration cards, please.”

“Uh, yeah,” the man murmurs. “You new to town?”

Lydia shakes her head, and Stiles strides eagerly forward.

“We’re just passing through,” he tells the man smugly. “Lydia here found a cure for the trees, so we're taking her to DC.”

“Really?” the man asks, glancing skeptically from Stiles to Lydia. “ _She_ found a cure?”

Clearing her throat, the woman tosses her strawberry blonde hair and slips a card from her jacket pocket. Slapping it quickly to the counter, she pushes it insistently forward. “The rations, please,” she snaps.

He blinks twice, then nods. “Sure.” Snatching up the card, he rises to his feet and motions for them to follow. “Come with me.” Stepping through the door separating his desk from the reception area, he strides quickly down the hall, neat suit jacket flapping in his wake. “We don’t get many people exchanging cards these days.”

Laura scoffs. “Then why all the people out front?”

“Dregs,” the man replies. “We have secondary stores for them. They get less food than people who exchange ration cards. They don’t work or live anywhere. Once a week we give them some food to keep them from rioting, but that’s about it.”

Stiles frowns. “So what? There just aren’t any jobs?”

“It’s complicated,” the man replies. “And from the sound of things, you’re in a hurry.”

They continue down the hall in relative silence, a bare amount of light filtering through the shutters of far-off windows to light their way. Only when the receptionist holds up a hand do they stop, waiting patiently as he digs a set of keys from his pockets and slips it into one of the larger doors flanking the hall. He throws them wide, revealing a mess of upturned tables and chairs,

“Where are the workers?” Lydia asks, tugging off her jacket with a warm sigh, fanning herself with one hand. “If this is the distribution center there should be people here.”

“You’re looking at him,” the receptionist replies with a small grin. “Now, since you had the card, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

The woman glares, crossing her arms firmly before her chest. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s the rules,” the man replies, waving her toward a large door leading further into the kitchen.

Hesitantly, Lydia follows.

Ushering her through the door, the receptionist closes it firmly in their wake, lock sliding into place like the toll of a bell.

The woman spins around, eyes wide, only for heavy hands to turn her about. Fingers slide across the length of her stomach, drawing along the fabric of her shirt before gripping her arm sharply, elbow pinning her free arm into her side. Then, when the lightest of whispers as it clicks from its holster, a small knife draws against her throat “Sorry,” he murmurs. “But I just can’t have you upsetting what I have going on here.”

Lydia goes still, gaze roving over the large boxes piled throughout the room, towering clear to the high ceiling. Each box is marked with a large red stamp.

Redding, CA Rations - March 2014

Redding, CA Rations - April 2013

Redding, CA Rations - June 2015

Then, finally, her eyes light on a rifle propped in the corner of the room, ammo piled neatly about the butt of the gun like even rows of tomatoes.

Spinning quickly, Lydia wraps her jacket quickly around the knife before bringing her knee up quickly into the man’s groin. “Peter!” she screams, ducking around the staggering man.

The door snaps immediately open, admitting the older man, hand sliding immediately to his waist as his boot slaps cinematically against the cold linoleum floors.

Tossing the jacket to the floor, the receptionist rushes forward, knife exposed.

Bringing his glock from its holster, Peter disengages the safety and fires two deafening rounds point blank into the man’s stomach.

Lydia flinches back as the blood splatters across the floor, splashing her shoes and knees.

He turns from the corpse with a grimace. “Take only what we need,” he announces darkly. “Food is heavy, and we can’t afford to be weighted down.” When no one goes to move, the Marine sighs. “Fine,” he deadpans. “I’ll do it.”

Striding coolly over to the box labelled, “Redmond, CA June 2015,” he fits his fingers into the slats, tearing the top clean of. Reaching in, he retrieves a small sack. Turning toward Stiles, standing blankly in the doorway, he calls, “Catch,” tossing it at the younger man with no other warning.

Stiles barely manages to catch the small sack, or the seven that follow, piling in his arms until one falls, landing smack dab in the middle of the growing puddle of blood pooling from the body at his feet. “Oh my god,” he groans.

“Pick that up,” the Marine orders coolly.  “And let’s get moving.”

As he leaves, Laura, Lydia, and Stiles follow after him in various stages of O.K., trailing behind like small ducks, toting their bikes down the hall and out into the parking lot. There, the dregs stare at them, confused.

Mounting their bikes, they ride out of town just as the first of the crowd steps through the wide, glass doors.

**May 15th, 2015**

“Twenty miles!” Lydia calls as the dynamo’s display on her handlebars gives a shrieking trill. She raises her arm carefully, motioning to the side of the road. The group follows quickly, falling into a line on the hot pavement with eagers gasps for air.

“God, it’s so hot,” Stiles complains loudly.

“We’re headed into the desert, now,” Peter informs him, voice bitter. “It’s only going to get hotter.” He turns to Lydia, eyeing her sharply. “We’re going to have to change when we travel if we’re passing through Nevada.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “ _Northern_ Nevada,” she points out. “And no travel during the day: only early mornings, evenings, and maybe even at night. I am aware.”

Digging into her pack, Laura produces a small bag of dehydrated pea pods, passing it first to Stiles, then Lydia. “Keep your energy up, guys,” she tells them dryly. “And get a drink while you can.”

“Will do,” Stiles replies, saluting somewhat politely before collapsing into the dirt with a drawn sigh. “Why is biking so hard?”

“Why are you so slow?” Peter drawls back.

Despite himself, Stiles grins.

**May 16th, 2015**

As the trees give way to brush and dirt, sun growing hot, air thick with dust, Laura’s canteen pops free of her bike as a rock flies free of the road, propelled by her tire to smack keenly against the side of her pack. The bottle careens to the ground with a clatter, sliding furtively along the pavement with a heavy, insistent screech piercing the air.

“What was that?” Stiles murmurs, glancing curiously about.

“My canteen,” Laura replies tartly, easing her bike into a slow stop.

The train of riders pulls to a stop, Stiles’ bike wobbling as he attempts to slow just right to avoid the tow rope tangling in the spokes of his tires.

Rushing over to the fallen canteen, Laura’s fingers wind delicately around the width of it, bringing it up from the pavement with a lazy grimace. Her knees draw in until she’s standing perfectly straight, eyes watching in shock as a stream of water spills elegantly from the side of her canteen. “Guys,” she calls. “Guys, I need one of your canteens.”

“What’s going on?” Lydia asks loudly.

“My canteen broke.” Cupping her hand around the crack, the woman turns in place and jogs back to the train, eyes flicking occasionally to the panicked moves of her companions as they struggle through their panniers.

Stiles is the first to pull his from his bag, surprising everyone as he jogs away from his bike. He pauses for a second, frowning as his shoelace catches on the spines of his pedal, but shakes it free quickly. Striding up to Laura, he uncaps his canteen with a grimace. “I hope we don’t have to drink our own urine.”

Laura rolls her eyes, then levels the mouth of her bottle with his. She tips it cautiously. Watches as a few precious drops of water splash off, trailing down the side of her hand. Then, when the water stops flowing, she pulls them apart with a sigh. “How much longer until we reach Reno?” she asks, eyes turning on Lydia as she tucks her canteen away.

The younger woman grimaces. “Forty miles.” Her attention fixes on the sun high in the sky and she shakes her head. “Let’s set up a tent and take a break,” she suggests, strawberry hair billowing gently in a sudden, sharp breeze.

**...**

Spreading the map along the dusty bottom of the tent, Lydia taps a manicured finger lightly against the length of a thin, red line.  “We are about here,” she begins firmly. “Reno…” Her finger draws slowly along the line, travelling the meager distance to the nearest dot. “... is forty miles away.”

They’ve all clustered about in a circle, bent over the map with brows furrowed in concentration. Shifting uneasily, Laura passes a small bag of dehydrated peas to her left, to Peter, who takes them gratefully. He snatches a few for himself before handing it off to Stiles.

“We’re obviously going to have to stop in towns more often,” Lydia continues, eyes briefly flicking to the broken canteen lying abandoned to her right. “Ideally, twice a day.  After Reno is Fernley, which is thirty-two miles. But after Fernley is Lovelock – fifty-two miles of straight riding. That should only take half a day, but if Fernley is abandoned we won’t make it to Lovelock.” She drags her finger further down the line, tapping the small green patch labeled “Fernley Reservoir” twice. “We’ll head to the Reservoir instead. If that’s dry we’ll have to detour to Fallon to the South via Alt 50. It’s almost thirty miles out of our way, but we’d make it before it’s too dark – and we’d have shelter. On the upside, the distance between Fallon and Locklock is the same as Fernley – fifty miles.”

“And if the Reservoir is dry and Fallon is abandoned?” Laura inquires softly, gaze turning from the map to Lydia.

“Then we crawl under a bush and die.”

Peter scoffs. “That’s encouraging.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “If we make it to Lovelock,” she continues sharply, “then we pass through Pershing County to Winnemucca. That’s one-hundred seventeen miles.”

Laura shakes her head sharply, insisting, "We can't make it that far without water."

"I know, which is why we'll be depending heavily on the Rye Patch State Recreation Area. We go off road about ten miles to the Humboldt River…”

**May 17, 2015**

In the depths of Reno, Nevada, Stiles eyes a McDonald's, a Taco Bell, and a Jack in the Box all on the same block before they turn left and pull into an abandoned casino.

“Peter’s turn to get supplies,” Laura announces as they wheel their bikes into the foyer. Outside, the sun is high in the sky; the air a pleasant seventy degrees.

“At least let me sweep the area,” he drawls.

As soon as Stiles sets his bike up, he hops on one of the few standing stools, hand going for the knob of a slot machine. “Doo, doo,” he singsongs.

Laura glances over, curious. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to win the jackpot,” he giggles back.

“But it’s not-”

“Shh,” he hisses. “I’m trying to win the jackpot.”

Sidling up to Lydia with a sideways glance to Stiles, Laura murmurs under her breath, “Is he okay?”

Turning up from her bags, the younger one glances first as the Nurse, then the man at the slot machine. “He'll be fine.”

**May 18th, 2015**

Twenty miles outside the outskirts of Reno, with the cacti chirping and the birds lying dead in the brush, the entire camp wakes to the insistent trilling of Finstock’s bells. “It is time to wake,” the clock insists in morse far too quick for any of them to follow. “So get your asses up.”

Stiles groans, slapping his hands over his ears with a groan.

“Hey,” Peter mumbles, reaching limply across the empty space between their sleeping bags to slap at the younger man’s exposed face. “Your turn.”

“No…” Stiles whines. “I don’t wanna get up.”

The older man groans, throwing a hand blindly to his right and snatching up the first thing that comes to hand; a shoe. Lobbing it artfully at his companion, he grins, satisfied, at the whimper of pain that follows. “Get up. Make breakfast. Be useful.”

“I’m going to loosen the bolts of your bike,” is the threat that follows.

As the zipper of Stiles’ sleeping bag is undone, and the tent flap pulled aside, Peter burrows further beneath his blankets, humming in appreciation as Finstock falls blissfully silent.

**…**

Halfway to the next town, Peter’s bike wobbles dangerously while cruising down a hill, and they all stop for half an hour for Stiles to retighten the bolts.

Lydia deigns to kick him in the shin.

**...**

Fernley whistles with a dry breeze, undisturbed. It feels as if at any moment it might be blown away. Instead, it is pinned in place by tall, sloping, blue mountains that wade through a sea of clouds to gently scrape the sky.

The group pedals quickly through town, sparing the occasional glance towards torn roofs and missing doors. They follow the signs to the reservoir, utterly silent as the first stages of anxiety begin to settle in. But as they pull through town and into the woods, the air grows moist, and the sounds of life begin to filter through with the whisper of wind through the trees.

Finally, they pull into the reservoir, drawing to a sharp stop. Before them, laid out like a present in a seat of greenery, lies a makeshift city cobbled from blankets and doors.

“I thought this was a reservoir,” Laura gapes, staring down at the glittering lake sitting in the center of the huts. “I thought this was a _desert_.”

“Things change?” Stiles suggests lightly.

“Welcome to Fernley!” someone calls, drawing their attention to one of the nearby shanties. There, a young woman waves them over with a smile. Her hair is twisted up in braids, held atop her head with a brightly colored bandanna. Her skin stands stark against her dress; impossibly dark beside the orange and green stripes. Both are clean; freshly washed and free of grime or dirt.

Unconsciously, Lydia tugs at the hem of her filthy shorts.

Racing up to them, feet bare against the plush grass, the woman offers her hand to the first of them, fingernails tapping Laura’s handlebars loudly. “I’m Harley,” she greets. “You are?”

“Uh…” The nurse clears her throat, confused. “Laura.” She takes the hand as an afterthought, shaking it firmly.

“Peter.”

“Stiles.” He glances to Lydia, watching her throat work slowly before turning back to Harley with a drawn grin. “That’s Lydia.”

Harley nods happily, glancing between them. “So what brings you here?”

“Just passing through,” Peter offers, leaning forward on his handlebars. “Do you have a trading post? We need another canteen.”

“Yeah, down on the other side of the lake. I’ll take you there.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lydia insists. “We can find our own way.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“Yes,” Laura interjects sharply, glancing cautiously from Harley's disarming grin to Lydia's hand, trembling lightly against her handlebars. “We can handle it from here. Thank you, though.”

“Alright,” Harley consents politely. Her hand comes up, motioning to the far side of the lake with a finger held aloft. “Follow this edge of the lake until you come across the orange gazebo. Anything beyond that, until you get to the purple tent, is the trading post. It's not very active this time of day, but you should find what you're looking for.”

“Thank you.” Turning toward the lake, Laura motions for the group to follow, keeping a careful eye on Lydia as she adjusts the handlebars. “Hey,” she calls, pulling up beside her. “I’m gonna take pointe for a while.”

Slowly, Lydia draws her attention away from the Dynamo’s display to meet Laura's gaze; eyes hard with determination; mouth a thin line of betrayal as the smallest of trembles shimmers in her shiny pink lip gloss.

Making no move to address this, Laura turns away and guides her bike forward.

Behind the two women, Peter glances from his niece to the back of Lydia’s head curiously.

“Hey,” Stiles prompts quickly, nudging the back of the older man’s bike with his front tire. “Move it.”

“Moving, moving,” Peter drawls, gripping his handlebars tight.

**…**

“Three ration cards for a canteen is more than enough,” Laura argues sharply.

“And I’m saying ration cards are no good here,” the woman tells her sweetly, leaning back in her neon yellow Adirondack. “You’re going to have to trade something else.”

“What do you mean they’re no good here?” Lydia snaps, fingers angrily curling into her palms.

The woman shrugs. “The shipments stopped coming ages ago. No need for ration cards.”

Pursing her lips, Lydia glances quickly from Laura, then to her pack, before striding quickly to her bike and reaching deep into the depths of her pannier. After a few seconds of rifling around, she produces five slightly smashed Reece’s packages. Turning away from her bike, she stomps up to the booth once more, brandishing them sharply. “What will this get me?”

Eyeing them carefully, the booth keeper snatches them right out of Lydia’s hand. “That’ll get you two canteens,” she informs her sweetly. “And a bottle of sunscreen for that parched face of yours.”

Strawberry blonde eyebrows arch with surprise. “It is not parched,” she argues bitterly. But when the bottle is set upon the counter, she snatches it up anyway, striding away with a huff before grabbing her bike and walking it up the grassy knoll.

In her wake, Laura grabs up the canteens with a small, “Thanks.”

“Have a safe trip, now!” the booth runner calls after them.

**May 19th, 2015**

Glaring down at the ocean of withered grass, the sun shines bright on Pershing County as the group passes through Lovelock without incident and continues down the road.

For Peter, time has fallen to the wayside. Minutes have turned to seconds. Hours to minutes. And as they crawl past hills and dilapidated street signs, mile markers and the occasional drunk driver reminder, watching each and every power line slide past them as if they were ants passing through a field of wheat, he finds a place in his head where anger used to be.

Now, there seems to be only peace.

Peace as the signs fly by.

Peace as the markers count high.

Peace as the end of the power lines pass at his side.

His eyes rove over the far-off hills, crinkling lightly against the breeze singing by his ears.

“Why is everything so _windy_?” Stiles complains suddenly.

Glancing away from the road, Peter turns his attention to the man at the other end of the tow rope with open amusement. "Because you're on a bike."

"Am I?" Stiles' head comes up from his handlebars, eyes fluttering open. He giggles. "Hehe. You're green." Leaning to the side, the younger man's lofty expression falls suddenly as his handlebars wobble, sending his bike into a precarious swerve.

“Stop,” Peter shouts. “Everyone, we need to stop. Laura, we need you over here.”

“What is it?” Lydia calls from the front, tapping hesitantly on her break to coast to a stop.

Pulling off to the side of the road, the group sets up their kickstands as Stiles falls off his seat and onto the cracked pavement. There he lay, still and silent.

“Check if he’s breathing,” Laura shouts from up front as Peter approaches the man’s side.

Dropping carefully to his knees, Peter places two fingers against the tip of Stiles’ nose. Then, grimacing, he pulls them away with a hiss. “Did you just lick me?”

“Yes, Mr. Scrooge.”

“It might be heat exhaustion,” Laura comments lightly, approaching on his other side. Stepping forward cautiously, she presses her hand against Stiles' forehead. But as her fingers brush the front of his helmet, she hisses. Reaching forward, the nurse fits her fingers into the clasp, tossing the helmet off into the brush. There it sits, sending waves of heat up into the air. "Stiles," she calls softly, holding her hand up before his eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Tentacles," Stiles announces in reply. "You're holding up _tentacles_."

"Yup; that's heat exhaustion. Do we have anything we could wrap around his head? Preferably something light that will breathe a little better than his sorry excuse for a helmet."

Lydia, approaching with her bike at her side, draws open a zipper on her pannier and reaches  in to retrieve a pair of silky,  pastel pink sleeping pants. Setting the kick stand, she strides up to Stiles and begins to wrap it about his head with a grimace. “It’s no pith helmet,” she drawls, “but it’ll have to do.”

“ _The pretty fairy is talking_ ,” Stiles hisses in shock.

The entire group falls silent after this, only broken by Peter's murmured inquiry of, "Why do you get to be the pretty fairy?"

"Tie him to his bike," Lydia demands, turning to Peter. "Generally, we shouldn't move him, but we won't find any shade for a long while. This way we'll be able to get him to the Rye Patch Recreation Area and get him some fresh water."

Peter nods, glancing between the two women, then to Stiles. “Any particular way I should tie him?”

Laura shrugs. “Just don’t let him move much.” Motioning to Lydia, they step away, moving back up the line and sharing a drink from the fifth canteen.

Rolling his eyes, the Marine steps up to his bags, pulling out the long coil of rope for tying up food. Turning back to his companion, Peter drops it to the ground. “Alright, Stiles,” he tells the younger man firmly. “We’re going on a little trip. Don’t lose your pants hat.”

“What _kind_ of trip?” Stiles asks curiously, eyelids fluttering.

“The kind you aren’t going to like.” Fitting his hands beneath the warm curves of Stiles’ armpits, pointedly ignoring the sweat dripping between his fingers, Peter lifts him soundly from the ground, earning a gross heave.

“Oh god.”

“I said you wouldn’t like it.” Reaching down to snatch up the rope, the older man allows it to slip just so in his grip until the end is firmly in the palm of his hand. Then, with an insistence of, “Stay still,” he holds Stiles’ wrist in place along the handlebar and slowly begins to wind the rope around it. And for a long while after that, it is silent.

"Hehe," Stiles giggles. "Mr. Scrooge is kinda hot."

"Keep it in your pants," Peter drawls, cinching the last knot tight against the man's wrist.

Stiles makes a noise of protest. “Where is the fairy going?”

Glancing around, the older man rolls his eyes as Lydia pulls away from the group at a lazy pace, back straight and hair flying. “She’s… flying to safety.”

“The fairy is very pretty.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees, turning back to Stiles. He snaps, drawing the younger man’s attention. His lips twist nervously. “You should follow the fairy. She’s going to lead you to a nice, cold-”

Bending forward suddenly, Stiles heaves miserably as the contents of his stomach splash against the man’s shoes.

“-hole in the ground.”

**...**

“Welcome to the Rye Patch State Recreation Area,” Laura reads loudly, peering at the large sign flat against the ground. “Open year round. Cowboy country.” She makes a noise. “You know, I’m surprised this is so readable. You’d think it would be covered in mud or something, on the ground like this. Any bets on whether or not someone still maintains this area?”

“My money’s on ‘no,’ Peter drawls, supporting Stiles with his shoulder as they wobble into the parking lot. In his hands, one bike shoots off to the left, floppy tire catching on a rock. He straightens it with a grimace. “And how does _no one else_ know how to fix a bike tire?”

Laura rolls her eyes. “You’ve asked that before, Peter. Half an hour ago.”

“Yes. It’s not a rhetorical question, thanks,” he snaps.

“It never came up,” Lydia answers simply. “I didn’t touch a bike between age five and the time the fungi started to spread, and then I had Stiles.”

“And you, Laura?”

“Oh, don’t even with me, Peter,” the woman snarks. “You know this is mom’s bike. I’m a roller blade girl.”

“Roller blades!” Stiles cheers groggily, pumping a hand weakly into the air.

“Don’t you even start again,” the older man scolds.

**...**

Pushing her bike beneath the covered area, Lydia eyes the picnic tables littering the site before her attention turns to the lake just at the bottom of the hill. “Okay, we’re setting up camp here for the night.”

“The night?” Peter gasps. “It’s barely noon.”

“Yeah, and Stiles has heat exhaustion,” Lydia snaps over her shoulder. “Your tire isn’t getting fixed until he’s better.”

“Speaking of which, I should probably bring him down to the lake,” Laura announces, pulling her bike up beside Lydia’s. “You two set up camp, okay?” Striding up to Stiles and Peter drags him beneath the cover, Laura begins picking at the ropes binding his wrists to the handlebars.

Engaging the kickstand, Peter retrieves the tent from his bag and steps away with a grimace.

Lydia motions to the tables. “Could you help me clear these?” she asks, manicured fingers catching the light.

**May 20th, 2015**

Finstock is screaming.

And screaming.

And screaming.

Stiles slaps his hand out, slamming it forcefully  on the cold, damp tarp, wrist bouncing sharply against the concrete beneath them. “Oh, god, owe.”

Emerging from deep within his sleeping bag, Peter chuckles. “Good to see you’re feeling better.”

Outside, Finstock goes blissfully silent.

“Where are we?” Stiles gasps, glancing around the tent with wide eyes.

“Rye Patch Recreation Area.” Rising from the blankets like a caffeinated zombie, Peter sets about rolling up his sleeping bag.

“How did we get here?”

“Biked most of the way, walked the rest,” he answers idly. “Tied you to your handlebars, if you were wondering. Speaking of which, my tire is flat, and last night when Lydia admitted she had no idea how to wire the heater in with her Dynamo I realized why the hell we brought you in the first place.”

Wiggling his fingers condescendingly, Stiles drawls, “Yay, tech support.” Crawling carefully out of his sleeping bag, Stiles snatches up his clothes from the floor. “Did you undress me?” he asks, tugging his pants on over one leg.

“Why? Would you prefer Laura did it?”

“No,” he objects. “No, you’re good.” Tugging on his shirt, he slips his socks and shoes on before starting on his sleeping bag, rolling it up quickly. He throws a glance Peter’s way as the man rises to his feet, buttocks clenching. “I still can’t believe you sleep in the nude. Don’t you get cold?”

“That’s what blankets are for,” Peter replies lightly, turning to face the younger man with a smug grin.

Stiles turns away, hands flying up in defense. “Oh, Jesus, dude, for, like, the _eighth_ time, I do not need to see your junk first thing in the morning.”

The older man chuckles, watching as the sleeping bag at his companion’s knees unfurls. Stepping into a pair of khakis, he pulls them up to his hips and buttons them with one smooth movement. “Girls took a bath last night. Our turn this morning. Hurry up or breakfast will get cold before you get back.”

“Breakfast will get cold before you get back,” Stiles mocks as the man leaves the tent.

Sticking his head back through the flap, Peter scoffs, floppy hair backlit by the rising sun. “Were you even trying to be quiet?”

“Nope,” Stiles replies, popping his lips childishly.

“Noted.” Pulling out of the tent, the Marine leaves with a slow shake of his head.

Shifting on his knees, Stiles turns his attention back to the sleeping bag, rolling it up before tieing it off in a compact tube. Then, smacking his shoes carefully against the floor, he steps from the tent with a wan grin. “Morning.”

Seated before the portable heather, Laura groans. “Okay, I give up. How do you link this thing into the Dynamo?”

“You don’t,” Stiles replies evenly. “That’s solar powered. You just unclip the solar panel from the top and let it hang out of your bag and it’ll charge. The stove needs to hook into the Dynamo.”

Eyes wide, the woman spits, “What?”

“Good to have you back, Stiles,” Lydia informs him with a wide, sarcastic grin. “Now go take a bath. You smell like a sewage drain. Then we need you to fix Peter’s bike.” Snatching a towel from a pile of folded laundry, she tosses it his way. “You can thank Peter for doing your shorts, by the way,” she tells him. “And your crusty underwear.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

“Someone had to do it,” Laura points out helpfully. “And I was watching your brain-stewed ass.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows curiously, but decides not to comment, turning toward the lake with a low whistle. He makes his way down the trail, enjoying the cool breeze wafting up from the water as he approaches. As the beach comes into view, so does the tall, tanned man bobbing like a tennis ball in the shallows. “Got started without me, I see,” he drawls, drawing up to the edge of the water with a grin. He toes off his shoes quickly, along with his socks, stuffing them into the soles.

Rising to his feet, Peter turns to face his companion with a grin. Fingers coming up to comb long, wet hair back away from his face, he spits out a small stream of water. “If we waited for everyone who needed to catch up, there would be no pioneers.”

“Oho,” Stiles drawls, shucking off his shirt. “So leaving me behind at camp so you can get to the water early makes you a pioneer.” His eyes turn to the ground as he works at the buttons of his shorts, staring into nothing.

“No more than you taking forever to arrive makes you a snail.”

Glancing up suddenly, the younger man meets Peter’s eyes in a challenge. “Oh,” he says sharply. “Oh, it is _on_.” Shoving down his shorts and underwear in one go, Stiles gingerly steps into the water, wading into the shallows.

“And what, may I ask, is-”

The last of Peter’s words are lost to a small-scale flood slapping against his face as Stiles tents his hands and forces them along the surface of the lake, shooting clear, fresh water in a perfect arc to slap the older man’s face.

He sputters for a few precious seconds, shocked.

Stiles giggles.

Slapping his hands together, Peter bows to the younger man politely before swinging them into the water, dragging them before him in a wide crescent and unleashing a tall wave.

Dodging back, Stiles barely manages to avoid the strike, only to catch the manic expression in his adversary’s eyes. “Oh fuck,” he hisses. Turning tail, he flees further into the lake.

**...**

“I grew up with a river in my backyard!” Peter shouts in the distance. “You can’t beat me!”

Laura and Lydia glance up curiously from the wires leading from the Dynamo, only to shake their heads in unison and turn back to the device.

“Children.”

**...**

“So I had heat exhaustion?” Stiles asks, popping open the small bottle of rubber cement. “What was I like?”

“Kind of silly,” Laura replies amusedly. “I mean, it was a little scary, and I wasn't sure if we were going to be able to get you in proper shade before it progressed to heat stroke, but you were generally pretty funny.”

“Huh. Funny how? Like,  jokes?”

“Mostly you said weird or obvious stuff,” the woman insists lightly. “Like how it was windy, or that your bicycle seat was hard.”

“The part where he started seeing things was a little funny,” Peter adds, collapsing a set of tent stakes.

“Wait, what?”

“Apparently Lydia was a pretty fairy, Laura had tentacles, and I was Mr. Scrooge.”

“A _hot_ Mr. Scrooge,” Lydia corrects, settling her pannier back on her bike rack. “Can’t forget that part.”

“I figured it could be overlooked,” Peter insists on the louder side, “seeing as I’m nearly twice his age and he was _hallucinating._ ”

Laura chuckles. “Heat exhaustion doesn’t cause hallucinations – it causes confusion. Big difference.”

Peter waves a hand in her direction, announcing grandly, “Even better.”

Slapping a patch on the tire, Stiles pulls a long strip from a roll of friction tape. With what seems to be half the roll in his mouth, he stops abruptly, eyes fixed on the far-off curve of his handlebars. “Hey, guys,” he mumbles around the tape, “where’s my helmet?”

Rising to her feet, Lydia claps her hands together. “Tents are done. As soon as Stiles is ready we’re setting out; half hour rides broken up by breaks, today.”

“Lydia, where’s my helmet?”

**...**

Pulling up the long incline leading up and away from the highway, Laura breathes a scoff. “Winnemucca?” She drawls. “Who the hell named this place? India Opal Buloni?”

Peter's eyes narrow skeptically. “Who the hell is India Opal Buloni?”

Heading the group, leading them quickly into town, Lydia sighs.

They only make it a few blocks before Stiles protests, “STOP!” The group comes to a screeching halt as the man points up at a dilapidated building, roof green, decked with six empty flag poles, and clad in white siding. “We should stay here tonight,” he insists suddenly.

Glancing at the sign, Lydia sighs.

_Martin Hotel._

“Well,” Peter drawls amusedly, “It looks empty.”

**May 22nd, 2015**

Stiles is drowsing when a bright flash lights the tent, followed by a life shattering _boom_ that shakes the very ground.

At his side, Peter shoots awake, breath sharp and heavy over the gentle trickle of rain.

Rising from the floor to bend over his knees, Stiles peers through the darkness at the man in a panic, gaze steady and sure. “Hey,” he calls lightly. “We’re just outside Golconda. It’s just you and me in here. You’re Peter Hale, and I’m Stiles Stilinski…”

**...**

With clear ponchos shimmering over their bodies like poorly applied seran wrap, Stiles follows in Peter’s wake, squinting angrily through the layer of rain.

“I spy with my little eye something grayish black,” he murmurs to himself. “Is it the sky? Yes, it’s the sky. What do you know? Your turn, Stiles.” Clearing his throat, he continues in a light falsetto. “Alright, thanks Stiles. Let's see – I spy with my little eye something grayish black.” He chuckles, voice deepening subtly. “Is it the sky?” A squeak. “Yeah, it's the sky! How did you know? You're a genius, Stiles. Your turn."

“I spy with my little eye something annoying,” Peter drawls, dryly.

Laura snorts. “You don't have rearview mirrors.”

“Don't I?”

“Hey,” Stiles calls. “Hey, you.”

Peter twists his head about, peering skeptically back at the man. “Me?” he drones.

“Yeah, you,” the younger man replies sharply. “Fuck you.”

“I spy snowcapped mountains,” Lydia interjects, drawing their attention as he taps at her breaks, pulling the train to an abrupt halt.

All eyes turn on the horizon, scanning the hills desperately.

“I don’t see anything through all this stupidity,” Stiles murmurs.

Easing back on his heels to draw beside the younger man, Peter’s arm comes up to point through the rain to one of the larger hills, topped lightly with a dusting of white.

“Oh,” he exclaims suddenly. “Cool. What does that mean? For us, I mean.”

“It’s probably North Peak,” Lydia calls down the line, “which means we're almost to Battle Mountain.”

Stiles gapes, a grin winding up his cheeks. “Did you just say Battle Mountain?”

“It's the next town. Battle Mountain, Nevada.”

Peering through the rain at the hills far in the distance, Stiles makes a noise deep in his throat, shivering as a sharp gust of wind plucks at the hem of his poncho. “Can we get going?”

Glancing back down the train, Lydia’s eyes trail from Stiles, then down to the pavement, watching the water sluice off the road and into the desert. She nods once firmly before settling her feet back on the pedals.

**...**

It’s nearly half an hour before they take the exit into Battle Mountain, Nevada, turning on to 305.

“It’s a small town,” Laura calls up to Lydia as they pass a dilapidated Chevron station. “The ration post could be anywhere.”

“The ration post is at the Owl Club.”

The train of bikes comes to a screeching halt as Lydia slams on her brakes. And as they draw to a stop, her eyes turn to the sidewalk, eyeing a woman standing by the wayside, staring at them in utter shock as four sets of attention turn on her.

“What?” Lydia squeaks.

“The ration post,” the local woman replies over the rush of the rain, glancing curiously between them. “It’s… at the Owl Club.”

“The Owl Club,” Lydia repeats softly.

“Just down the road,” the stranger continues. “On the right, just off Front Street.”

For a long moment, Lydia just stares at the woman before calling a surprised, “Thanks,” and guiding them all down the road.

“Well, that was easy,” Laura hums happily.

“Too easy,” Lydia replies suspiciously.

“Hey, not every gift horse needs a magnifying glass.”

As they come up to a three-way split, Lydia glances from side to side until her eyes light upon a large sign, tracing over the drab, unlit neon tubes that curl into an elegant “Owl Club” above the wide sidewalk. She guides them down the road, parking beneath the overhang and dropping the hood of her poncho with a sigh.

Turning to the front doors, Laura peers up at the welcome sign with a grin. “Owl Club,” she hoots, “Family Dining.”

Turning to look at the older woman, Lydia shakes her head slowly. “You just keep getting weirder and weirder.”

“Thank you.”

“Whose turn is it?” Stiles asks, glancing over at the wide open door. “Didn’t our schedule go to shit?”

Plucking at the sleeves of her flannel, Laura shrugs. “I can go.”

After a short silence, during which no one objects, the woman nods once, engages her kickstand, holds out her hands for their canteens, and walks into the building.

“So…” Stiles begins slowly, peering casually at the Super 8 across the street. “Roads are slick. Visibility is shit. We bunking here tonight?”

“That seems to be the best course of action,” Lydia muses, “but I would just like to say now that I am _not_ staying at a hotel. That’s immediately where the homeless population would go in the event of an apocalypse.”

“Beds galore,” Peter agrees.

“Then how about we just start walking?” Stiles asks, frowning as he shifts and his poncho gives a hollow fart. “Just point our bikes down the street and see if we like anything?”

Lydia shrugs. “That might be what we have to do.”

With a heavy squeal, the door pops open to allow Laura to stride out onto the sidewalk, arms full of ration sacks.  “So,” she asks, tone bored. “What next?”

“We find shelter,” Lydia replies shortly as the woman passes around the bags and canteens, handing them off for each person to stuff into their pannier. Taking her own, the woman brushes a wet lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear, unzipping her bag and stuffing it in. “We’ve decided to walk down the street and pick somewhere.”

“Cool,” Laura whispers amusedly, stuffing her own bag of food in her pannier. “So, which way are we going?”

Peering around the train, Lydia turns the way her bike is facing and walks.

The other follow like a particularly obedient litter of puppies.

Until Stiles draws to a stop and says with no lack of confidence, “Here.”

The group slows, feet stalling against the wet pavement as Stiles stares up at a street sign.

“See something?” Peter asks.

Pointing to the sign, the boy remains silent.

_Scott Street._

Glancing further up the street, Lydia hums deep in her throat. “El Aguila Real and Ming Dynasty Chinese,” she reads, glancing between the two restaurants. “Go ahead, Stiles.”

The boy gives a whoop, waving for Stiles to start them toward the Mexican restaurant with an enthusiastic arm.

Watching the men as they stride away, Laura leans over to whisper, “Okay, did I miss something?”

“Not, you – him,” the younger woman replies softly. “And not what; who.”

**May 23rd, 2015**

In the early hours of the morning, they arrive in Carlin to little fanfare. Retrieve their rations with little fanfare. Pass through with little fanfare.

At the edge of the city, Lydia draws the train to a stop. “Do you want to take a break?” she asks, looking Stiles in the eye.

The man shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he insists. “Let’s keep going.”

**...**

“No choice,” Peter bemoans softly, eyeing the collapsed tunnel before them with a drawn grimace. “We’ll have to climb it.”

“Climb it?” Stiles gasps. “Climb- that’s a _moutain_ ”

Resting one hand on the center of his handlebars, Peter turns to Stiles with a smug, “ _That_ is a large hill.”

“Guys, keep up,” Laura calls, drawing their attention away from the tunnel.

The women are trekking through the tall dead grass off the side of the road, following the sharp incline down towards a wide field. A good distance away, a set of train tracks lead into a bridge, a broad tunnel burrowing through the side of the cliff.

“Uh-” Shading his eyes against a patch of sun shining through the clouds, Stiles peers down the hill at the retreating women with a grimace. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Tax dollars,” Peter snarks back, dismounting quickly and drawing his bike into a wide turn.

The younger man cries in alarm as his bike jolts beneath him, tugging along happily with the aid of the tow rope between them. “Hey, hey, hey, give me a second! Jesus!” Nudging himself forward on his toes, he hops quickly off the seat and onto the road with a sharp whine. “Patience is a virtue.”

“So is abstinence,” the Marine snaps back.

Stiles gapes. “Did you just say that?”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Did you just seriously reply to that with, ‘so is abstinence?’ Because what?”

Leading them quickly down the hill, the older man pushes them to catch up with the women, their tires hissing angrily through the tall, dried grass.

“This stuff is going to get everywhere, isn't it?” Stiles drawls as a bit of grass digs suddenly into the fabric of his pants.

Peter rolls his eyes, feet shuffling a touch faster through the stalks as they come up on the tracks, approaching the women at a pause.

“Is it just me, or are you two a little distracted today?” Lydia inquires as their trailing companions hike their bikes onto the tracks. Her eyes lock on Peter's pannier as it wobbles, tipping a touch onto it's side as his wheels stutter up out of the grass.

“It's your imagination,” the Marine rebukes lowly, hefting the rear of his bike and lifting it solidly as Stiles struggles to shove his onto the tracks.

“A little help here?” he gasps, shoving the wheel ineffectively at the side of the incline.

Peter rolls his eyes before reaching forward to grip the center of the handlebars firmly. “When we settle down for the night, let's move some of your things into my bags, alright?”

The younger man throws him a dirty look, but his head bobs agreeably.

“Before we head out,” Lydia begins, pointing a manicured finger at Peter's pannier, “would you mind tieing that down a bit better?”

“Will do,” he replies easily, throwing a half-hearted salute her way before gripping Stiles’ bike sharply and tugging it onto the tracks.

Stiles staggers up in the wake of his handlebars with a mangled shout, feet stuttering up the sharp incline until they stumble over the wooden boards. “Where are the rails?” he asks after a short moment, glancing around curiously.

Tugging one of the straps on his pannier taut, Peter grunts.

“Probably salvaged,” Laura suggests. “There’s probably a farm around here, somewhere. Further north or south. They would need a steady supply of tools.”

“I’m surprised we haven’t passed any farms,” Stiles breathes lowly. “I mean, I know we’re in the desert, but if we don’t pass by any farms on the way to DC I’m going to be disappointed.”

“It’s an agricultural center, not a petting zoo,” Peter drawls.

“I know that! I just heard government funded ones are _huge_!”

Cinching the last strap tight, the older man rolls his eyes before turning to Lydia. “All done.”

“Good.” Turning to the tunnel, the woman leads her bike across the bridge silently.

The group follows, falling into a neat line, easy as breathing.

As they draw into the tunnel, Stiles gaps. “Whoa, “ he giggles, voice bouncing from wall to wall. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in a proper tunnel.”

“Good for you,” Peter drawls.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, the younger man calls, “Fuckwad!”

“Technically you’re a fuckboy,” Laura announces suddenly, the tunnel cooing its reply. “Not a fuckwad.”

Peter’s eyebrows arch curiously. “A what?”

“A fuckboy.”

“What’s a fuckboy?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But-”

Mouth dropping open, Lydia screams into the tunnel, “I’m surrounded by fuckboys!”

In the cool breeze of the tunnel, bracketed elegantly by smooth concrete walls, “fuckboys” echoes into infinity.

**...**

They make it two more miles before God takes a good and proper piss.

“I need that fucking tarp!”

“I know, I know, I’m fucking getting it!”

Snapping their tents up in record time as an ocean comes down above their heads, shoving their bikes through the flaps and collapsing on slightly damp sleeping bags as fat drops of rain cloud the landscape and sluice off the highway.

Peeling off his poncho, Stiles slaps it against the bridge of his handlebars, snapping his shirt and pants off with numb fingers as he ducks to fit within the curve of the tent. “Can you pass me a towel?” he asks, peering over at the man disrobing swiftly beside him.

Slapping his shirt on the worn rubber of his bike’s handle, Peter tosses the small hand towel draped across the seat his way.

“Thanks.” Running it through his hair, Stiles pats ineffectively at his body with the damp rag, sliding it up and down his legs in a hope of getting most of the rain. His teeth chatter noisily, skin breaking out into goosebumps in the wake of the towel.

Wringing his long hair into a ponytail, Peter slaps his jeans on the center spine of his bike and drops onto the blankets with a groan.

The younger man shoots around, indignant. “Dude, hey, you’re all wet!”

“So are the covers.”

“They weren’t _that_ wet!”

“Well, now they are.  So get down here before you freeze to death.”

“‘Get down here before you freeze to death,’” Stiles parrots nasally. Despite his protests he steps onto the pile of blankets gratefully, dropping to his knees, then onto his arms before cuddling up hesitantly to Peter’s side. “This is so weird,” he whispers as their skin catches, damp thighs dragging harshly against equally damp shins.

His companion huffs a scoff. “Would you prefer we oiled ourselves up and started to wrestle?”

“Honestly? A little bit.”

Turning to the younger man with a skeptical grin, Peter chuckles amusedly. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

**...**

The rain peters out after a bit, giving way to a soft breeze and clear skies.

Slipping his finger beneath the bar across his handlebars, Stiles pops it free with a strangled noise as a cornucopia of water floods forth from the seam. “Oh, god.”

Laura glances away from the sleeping bag she’s beating with a convenient stick, peering closely at the man’s bike. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“Yes and no,” he replies lowly. “Yes and no.”

**...**

“I wonder if it can be rewired to crackle like a fire,” Stiles muses, peering at the solar heater over his plate of dehydrated mushrooms. Sipping sharply from his canteen, he leans back on his haunches before bending forward again, hands propping up beside Lydia’s in front of the vent.

“Let’s not,” she insists softly.

Striding out of her tent, Laura plops down beside them. “So, we’ve had a day of rest,” she announces grandly. “I vote campfire stories.”

“Getting stranger,” Lydia drawls.

“Ooh, campfire stories,” Stiles laughs. “Hey, Peter, get out here.”

From their tent comes a long groan. “No.”

“Spoilsport,” Laura calls. “Okay, so, let’s start. Imaginary marshmallows, anyone?” Holding her hands out, she offers a plate of air to the both of them.

“Oh, my god,” Stiles squeaks, mouth falling open in a wide grin. “You’re actually fourteen.”

She grins. “Just covering all the bases.”

Reaching forward, the man pinches his fingers above Laura’s hand with a wide grin.

Lydia shakes her head, leaning back on her hands with a dry grin, placing her sunken collarbone and the line of her ribcage on display. “No thanks; I’m on a diet.”

A beat of silence follows before it’s chased into a hole by loud, raucous laughter.

“You never said you were funny,” Laura chokes out between loud snorts.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Lydia replies cooly, tilting her head gracefully to allow her locks to billow out behind her in the breeze.

“So what should we talk about?” Stiles asks. “Horror stories?”

“What I’d like to know is why Lydia here thought it was a good idea to go out with my brother.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I figured this would come up sooner or later.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles gapes.

“Why do you look so surprised?” Laura asks, turning to Stiles with a scoff. “Everyone knew.”

“I’ve only known about Lord of the Douche Canoes,” the man admits sourly. “The idea of her dating anyone else is kind of weird.”

“Derek and I weren’t dating,” Lydia drawls, “we were sleeping together. There’s a difference. We were never serious.”

Stiles eyebrows rise skeptically. “Whoa, this is a lot of process.”

“So…” Laura tilts her head curiously, plucking at the twisted strap of her tank top. “Who’s Lord of the Douche Canoes?”

Lydia’s sighs, and her eyes turn to the ground. “His name,” she begins quietly, voice hardly louder than the heater, “is Jackson.”

**May 24th, 2015**

Eyelids fluttering against the weak light of the night sky filtering through the vinyl stretch of tent, Stiles finds himself waking to the gentle hiss of Peter’s uneven snoring. Fumbling with the edge of his sleeping bag, the younger man flops unceremoniously from his place with a soft groan before staggering wearily to his feet. He stumbles out of his tent and into the cold night air.

Glancing from the cold heater, to the open flap of the girls’ tent, and finally the line of trees, he draws to a long pause. For a short second he turns away from the trees, feet moving in the direction of the open tent before turning away with a shake of his head. The pavement is loud against the soles of his shoes, lingering in the ear like a far off applause of one. It’s a bruise in Stiles’ head. A tickle along the length of his spine that draws him up and back. Even as his feet slide into the leaves the sound remains; the steady clap, clap, clap that slaps the air in a steady, pulsing rhythm.

Just as he sidles up to a tree, tugging his pants and the elastic rim of his boxers below the seam of his balls, a grunt sounds in the distance.

“Hold her still!”

"I’m trying, Jesus!”

Stiles draws to a pause, eyes scouring the line of trees framing the long, empty stretch of highway. Toes picking through the leaves, the man cocks an ear to the wind.

“Ga-”

A flinch slaps the man across the face as he peers around the first line of foliage into the distance.

“Get her arms!”

“I’m trying!”

Tucking his dick back into his boxers, Stiles grabs at his pants’ hem with a panicked grace, stumbling around the cluster of roots at the base of the tree to peer into the woods.

_Clap, clap, clap._

He draws around a tree hesitantly, then pulls back behind it with a strangled gasp as his gaze lights upon a small, insignificant clearing. For a brief instant he takes the time to enjoy the smallest of breezes that sweep through the forest before leaning from behind the large trunk to peer cautiously between the foliage.

Four men cluster around a fallen body, the buttons of their jeans undone, the rest of them in varying stages of disrobing. Three of them go for her arms, the final focussing his attention on her back. He swings his arm high, baton in hand, bringing it down. Squirming against his attentions, clothes in disarray but still managing to remain completely in tact, fingers clamped forcefully in the hem of a familiar pair of shorts to stop wandering hands from dragging them down, a head of messy hair twists away from the assault.

Through the cluster of bodies, Stiles spies the familiar slope of a small, insignificant nose.

And he sprints away.

Racing through the trees into camp, Stiles shoes slap the pavement in a harsh, uneven rhythm as his mouth opens wide. “Peter!” Careening up to his bike, his shoes catching momentarily on one another as his hands clamp over the handle bars. “Peter, get up now!” Fingers fumbling over the clasp, he gets a nail under the seam of the small wrap-around bar, tugging it carefully outward. Within seconds he gets the small bar free, and the handles pop away from the bike with a solitary _pop_ , sending the frame crashing to the ground. A noise of triumph escapes his throat.

And a hand settles onto his shoulder. It turns him about, forcing him around and down as his knees give to the motion, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

Stiles’ eyes turn on his assailant, flinching as one of Laura’s attackers raise a baton high above their head.

Up the baton went, drawing a line through the night air and rising into a long arc.

Stiles closes his eyes, flinching away from the baton even before it makes its descent.

Then comes a hollow crack. It pierces the air and leaves nothing in its wake: no echo; no screech; no scream. Only the steady ringing in one’s ear and the subtle hint of gunpowder lingering in the air.

An impact of knees and the _thump_ of a body hitting the ground.

Hesitantly, Stiles’ eyes slide open, growing wider as his mouth falls slack. His attacker has crumpled to the ground, chest a mess of fluids as air hisses angrily from their mouth. “Oh my god, is he dead?”

“Not quite,” Peter announces, quickly closing the distance from the mouth of his tent to their assailant. Finally, levelling the gun with the back of the stranger’s head, he fires twice more, sending a shower of blood and brain matter into the air. “ _Now_ he’s dead.”

The younger man gapes up at him, a sort of awesome fear curling in the base of his stomach as his companion stows his Glock in the holster at his belt before offering his hand for Stiles to take.

“Let’s go.”

Slapping their hands together, Stiles rises quickly to his feet, sneakers squelching through the growing puddle of blood and brain matter beneath him. He follows Peter in a daze,  left arm heavy with the handlebars as they race through the woods. “Think they heard the gunshot?” he asks.

The older man huffs a laugh. “Of course they did,” he drawls. “So either they have their hands full or have decided to run. If they’re smart, they’ll run.”

“And if they don’t run?”

“Then I wait for a clear shot,” he replies easily, fingers fiddling against the seam of the holster. “Take cover,” he commands as they draw close, voice floating across the silence of the forest. Ducking behind a tree, Peter draws his Glock. It follows him faithfully, hissing against the fabric, the sound nearly drowned in the gentle breath of a passing breeze rustling the forest.

Stiles glances from the tree, to Peter, then to the men clustered around Laura, before ducking behind Peter, settling his free hand on the bridge of the older man’s broad shoulders. “So we just… sit here?”

“That’s what waiting is, yes.”

“But she needs our help.”

“And she’ll get it,” the Marine snaps back, voice cool and even. “But only when the shot is clear.”

“Can’t you get them now?” Stiles hisses sharply. “They don’t even know we’re here.”

“I’m not a crack shot,” Peter snaps back, knuckles white against the gun. “This isn’t some movie. I could just as easily hit her.”

The younger man’s eyes trail over the line of his fingers, tracing the pale knuckles set in a tanned stretch of skin. “Are you scared?”

These words are met with a nonchalant shake of the head. “No. I’m angry.”

“Well, so am I,” Stiles snaps, stepping out from behind the tree. The leaves snap beneath his shoes as he rushes forward, raising the handlebars into the air with both arms and bringing them down swiftly on the first head he sees.

Crumpling to the ground, the assailant lets loose a weak squeal as he falls.

In an instant Laura is on her feet, fists slamming into exposed stomachs and sending the remainder of her attackers to the ground.

Her assailants fall with no grace or composure, whining deep in their throats as she lays them out with a fierce war-cry. “Mother fucker!” She holds herself up on shaky legs, eyeing the men with open contempt. “The world is ending,” she spits. “Couldn’t you find something productive to do?” A wound on her forehead bleeds sluggishly, and she reaches up to run a lazy hand across the gash.

“Are you okay?” Stiles gapes.

“I’ll be fine,” Laura replies easily. “Nothing a few days of _not being hit in the face_ won’t cure.”

“Good,” Stiles notes lightly. “Good.”

Just as the words flee from his mouth, the sharp prick of a knife digs into his throat as an unmistakable threat.

“Nobody move!”

On instinct, Stiles throws his hands up.

“Looks like we’ve got a joker here!” his assailant drones. He motions towards Laura with the knife before replacing it at Stiles’ neck. “You, on your knees.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the woman drawls.

“I said _on your knees_.”

From behind comes the smallest of rustles, and as his captor gasps Stiles finds his neck suddenly free of threat. Alarmed, he glances over his shoulder to see an elbow rising high in the air as a hand curls inward, slamming an angry fist into the stranger’s face.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And _again_.

_And again._

“Peter, that’s enough,” Laura drawls. “You’re making a mess for no reason.

Stiles glances from Laura to Peter, confused by the lack of snappy reply bubbling from the older man’s lips. He watches in shocked silence as the scene, instead, unfolds in a mass of gore and bubbling screams; the man’s fists descending one after the other to beat the stranger’s face with deadly accuracy. “Peter,” he calls softly. “Peter, I think he’s had enough.”

The fist descends onces more, careening into the delicate apple of a pale cheek with blinding fury.

Stepping forward, Stiles wraps his hand forcefully around the unmoving broad shoulder before him, yanking Peter away from the stranger with a wordless shout. In the place of stillness – of quiet and peace and other things very much not related to mayhem – comes movement. A world spinning away ground-first. The sky growing closer. The clouds falling about until they ring his head with fluff.

By the time Stiles blinks the confusion away Peter sits above him, Glock poised between them in open threat.

The Marine’s breath comes heavy and sharp in the air, hands tight around the butt of the gun with the sights lined with Stiles’ face.

And all is silent.

“Peter,” Laura whispers. “Peter, get off of Stiles.”

Stiles flinches as the gun appears to inch forward.

“Peter, get off of him,” she hisses, taking a hesitant step forward.

The man blinks, eyes shifting from the gun, to Stiles’ face, and then back to the Glock.

“What’s going on?” Stiles manages around the lump in his throat.

“Flashback, I think. Try…” Laura trails off, biting her lip. “Try not to make any sudden moves.”

“What, like breathing?”

“No, like sudden moves!”

Glancing between the gun and Peter’s face, Stiles locks his gaze on the older man’s eyes as he slowly offers his hands. “Okay, then,” he murmurs, sending them palm-up toward the Marine with open caution. “No sudden moves.”

Laura gapes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re alright, aren’t we Peter?” Stiles asks slowly, hands drawing closer to the gun. “We’re here, in the woods. You, me, and Laura.” Carefully, his hands close around the barrell of the Glock.

“Stiles, what the hell-”

“I’m talking him down,” he replies evenly, eyes still locked with Peter’s. “Isn’t that right, Peter? I’m talking you down. You’re not where you think you are. You’re here with Laura and me. Lydia’s back at camp. You remember Lydia, right? Tiny? Beautiful?” His fingers clamp fully around the gun, and slowly turn it away from his face.

Peter blinks, eyes going unfocused.

“It’s alright,” Stiles continues. “Everything is alright. We’re just outside of Elko. We’re biking across the US, remember? We’re going to save the world.”

The man shivers, hands growing limp on the gun. Lips fall apart, the high whistle of air through his teeth giving way to a desperate gulp of air, eyes fluttering shut as his arms shiver with the weight of the Glock.

Gazing up at the man with open caution, Stiles cautiously draws the gun out from between stiff fingers. “Oh thank god.”

Swooping in from behind, Laura circles around to her uncle’s front, looking him in the eye as her hands gravitate to his shoulders. “Let’s go back to camp, okay Peter?”

Slowly, the man nods.

She helps him up with a weak grin, hands guiding him up off of Stiles. “I’ll take him back to camp,” the Nurse insists, voice cautious. “You take care of the rest of the problem, okay?”

“The… problem?” Stiles gapes.

Nodding again, Laura guides Peter carefully out of the clearing.

Staring at their retreating backs, Stiles slowly stumbles to his feet, the Glock heavy in his hand. “Okay, then,” he murmurs. “Just… give the guy with no gun experience the person killer. Great.” As he gains his balance, he glances from assailant to assailant, all still on the ground. He’s quick to step away from the man nearest him, making his way to the men Laura had taken down, gasping wetly onto the forest floor. He flinches at the sight of blood bubbling from their lips, confusion plain, before leveling the Glock with the first man’s head.

“My name’s Matt.”

Stiles jumps, staring down at the man below him. “What?”

A dark, wet chuckle follows. “Just figured you should know who you’re shooting,” Matt drawls. “So you know who’s living in your nightmares.”

“I’m shooting a rapist,” Stiles rebuttles venomously. “That’s all I need to know. Shooting a rapist won’t give me nightmares.”

“Then pull the trigger if you’re so convinced,” the assailant sneers. “Or are you just some little fuck with Daddy’s Glock?”

Stiles purses his lips, eyes shuttering against the light of the moon. Breath hisses through the corners of his lips. “Yeah,” he agrees breathily. “I am just a little fuck with Daddy’s Glock.” For a short moment he turns his attention to the man across the clearing, breath hissing through one nostril; jaw out of place; nose indistinguishable. Then he turns back to Matt with a dry expression, leveling the gun almost point-blank with the man’s forehead. “But the thing about guns is that even a child can pull a trigger.”

**...**

On the fringe of trees around the clearing, Stiles throws up three times.

It takes him a long time to stumble into camp, attempting to keep his eyes from focusing too long on the small ocean of blood beside his bike where the body had once been. Half of it is smeared; a small creek leading off toward the woods that makes Stiles gag and dry heave over the pavement. Glancing down at the Glock and handlebars in his hands, he shakes his head and steps up to his tent.

Brushing the flap aside, he peers into the tent to find Peter lying diagonally across their sleeping bags. Ducking into the tent, he drops his handlebars by his feet. He pinches the zipper with two fingers to draw it shut.

From behind comes a groan, long and miserable. “Stiles?”

Drawing the zipper along the last length of teeth, the younger man turns awkwardly to face the man taking up his bed. “Yeah,” he answers a bit belatedly. “You back to normal?”

“Yes,” Peter slurs. “Yes, I’m back to normal.”

“Good,” he drones. “Take care of this.” Lips pulling back in a weak sneer, Stiles tosses the gun at the shadow of Peter’s stomach, flinching at the grunt to follow.

“You shouldn’t throw guns at people,” he snaps, tossing the gun over to his things in the corner. “It’s not nice.”

The younger man refrains from answering, tugging off his shirt, shoes, and pants before climbing on to the pile of sleeping bags and blankets. “Move over,” he insists, nudging his companion with a toe.

Peter grunts. “Just throw an arm over me or something. I’m not moving.”

Stiles stares, incredulous. “I’m not going to fucking cuddle with you.”

“Well, I’m not moving. It appears we’re at a standstill.”

They remain in silence for a long, tense moment before Stiles’ shoulders sag and he steps resignedly down the width of the sleeping bags. Falling to his knees beside the older man, he attempts to fit himself  in the space allotted, curling his legs up to his stomach with a disgruntled grumble, his back flush to the warm stretch of skin beside him. “This isn’t going to work,” he drawls.

“Then throw your leg over me and get it over with,” Peter murmurs into the blankets.

“I’m not going to cuddle you.”

“Would it help if I said No Homo?”

“No.”

“Good, ‘cause that’s homophobic.”

Stiles cranes his head curiously around, eyes tracing the line of Peter’s back in the dim moonlight. “That’s kind of the last thing I expected from you.”

The older man snorts. “Then hide your panties; you’re bunking with a rampant bisexual.”

“I’m not…” the younger man begins, voice suddenly catching in his throat.

“Stiles,” Peter interjects, “as stimulating as this conversation is, I’m not going to talk about sexuality with a nineteen year old at one in the morning. Just go to sleep.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Stiles grunts, but falls silent, head settling back on the blankets. A few minutes pass. Tense. Uncomfortable. Finally, Stiles murmurs, “Will I have nightmares?”

For the first time, Peter pulls his head away from his makeshift pillow, craning to see the man at his side. Heaving a heavy sigh, he shifts a bit to his right, fingers drawing across the pale shoulder before him, gripping it gently. He eases it toward him. His touch is light; uninsistent.

Stiles turns easily with the hand, back drawing straight until he’s lying properly.

Slowly, Peter’s arm stretches across Stiles’ torso until his hand finds the younger man’s opposite wrist. Guiding it up to his companion’s chest, the Marine slings his leg over a pale knee.

What seems like hours later, their breath slows and their fingers grow lax. Opinions silent, chests flush, and feet tangled intimately together, they fall into a dreamless sleep.

**May 28th, 2015**

The sun is falling low when the group pulls to an abrupt halt, breaks squealing as they follow Lydia’s example of tapping their grips furiously until they slow before a large sign caked with salt and sand.

“Welcome,” Laura reads in a bold, cinematic voice, “to Sol La Ciy, tah!”

Lydia and Peter roll their eyes as Stiles shamelessly shatters into giggles.

“What?” she drawls. “Someone had to. And welcome to Salt Lake City, by the way.”

“Just for that, you’re going to the ration station,” Peter decides with a snort.

“What? No! It’s Stiles’ turn!” the woman snaps.

“All in favor of the redistribution of labor, say ‘aye,’” he counters blandly.

In unison, three “aye”s cut through Laura’s squawks of indignation.

“I’m going to kill you, Peter,” she promises lowly. “In your sleep with a roll of wire, a dead armadillo, and a very small branch.”

“Please, go ahead,” her uncle encourages lightly. “Just tell me when you find an armadillo.”

**...**

Stomping the last of their stakes into the ground, Stiles steps away from their tent to admire it. The small shadow of a cloud passes over the smooth dome, settling it in shade. Turning his eyes up to the sky, he admires the deep, endless blue.

“Finally,” Peter drawls, pushing Stiles aside and dragging their things through the flap, disappearing from view.

The younger man rolls his eyes, stepping away from the tent with a sneer. “You could say ‘thank you,’” he suggests dryly.

“Thank you.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Stiles mocks. Stepping over to the bikes, he drops to his knees beside Laura’s front tire with a sigh. “Alright, my friend. Let’s oil you up.” As he reaches for his bag, he hears the dull, angry thump of hooves slapping flat earth. It snaps through the air. Lingers in his ears. But it isn’t until a billow of white dust puffs into his face that Stiles realizes the sound has grown and… stopped.

“Stilinski?”

Stiles turns his attention away from the bike beneath his hands, squinting through the evening sun at the stranger’s back to a familiar decadence of arrogance. “What are you doing here?” he gasps.

“I could say the same to you,” the man replies with a snort. “Where’s testicle right? Isn’t he usually with you?”

“Jackson?”

Stiles glances away from their new arrival to watch Lydia with thinly veiled caution as she steps from her tent, pushing the flap aside to reveal hair no longer frizzy from the wind and face bare of makeup and sunscreen.

Her lips spread in the smallest of grins.

“Lydia.”

Eyes slipping from the vision before him, Stiles’ attention turns to Jackson; watches carefully as the man dismounts, hands steady on the saddle horn and the muscles of his arms bulging lightly under his shirt. They drop as he turns, eyes wide and mouth slack. And for a startling moment he looks lost. For words; for direction; for space. And somewhere in his chest, Stiles feels the echo of hate that had once built to a fever pitch for the man before him die a swift, peaceful death as Jackson reaches for his stetson and pulls it from his head, pressing it respectfully to his chest as he gazes upon Lydia in open apology.

Peter emerges from his tent, throwing Lydia and Jackson a strange look, glancing between them curiously.

Rising to his feet, Stiles strides away without a word.

The trail to the lake is thick with salt, and at an incline it feels almost like sand. It crumbles softly beneath Stiles’ shoes. Glimmers bright in the light of the sun, shining orange among a dark blue sky. Collapsing by the water, Stiles stares out at the lake, thoughts straying every which way on his face as he snatches a rock from the shore and tosses it in a wide arc above the water, uncaring of the geese and swans that scatter in its wake.

“What’s their story?”

Glancing up, the younger man sighs. Beside him, Peter settles into the salt with a grimace, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Turning his eyes back to the lake, Stiles shrugs. “Long story.”

“And not yours to tell, I’m guessing.”

The younger man remains silent. Leaning forward, he shifts his weight onto his ankles, planting his hand in the salt to rise to his feet with a grunt. Snatching up another rock, he tosses it out into the water.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Peter warns. “The birds will get angry.”

“They’re oversized ducks,” Stiles argues, but even as he speaks his voice cracks at the seams, tone shattering, falling, as if to join the salt at their feet. “What are they going to do?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

Even as he remains silent, Peter watches Stiles closely as the younger man grabs a few more rocks from the salt, the words, “I must say, heartbreak looks good on you,” hovering at the seam of his lips. His eyes follow the arc of the rocks as they splash in the lake. Follow a lone swan as it takes flight, landing behind them so that it might stalk at Peter’s side. It throws him a suspicious look as it passes, black, shiny beak glinting in the sunlight. Peter does nothing as it passes him, drawing up behind Stiles to snap its neck forward, beak sinking viciously into the younger man’s right buttcheek with a war-squawk piercing the air.

Stiles leaps forward, toes catching against each other to pitch him face-first into the water. His front hits with a loud, satisfying slap before he flails onto his side. His hands come up in a panic, guarding his face as the swan descends. “Help!”

“I tried to warn you,” Peter tells him honestly as the swan fastens its beak in the flesh of Stiles’ hand, earning a choked scream.

“You’re supposed to protect us!” the besieged man screeches.

“From the road,” the Marine drawls amusedly, shifting back to settle on his elbows. His eyes drift from the lake to the swan. “Not from yourselves.”

Stiles screams again, followed by a whine of, “If I lose a finger, I won’t be able to ride!”

Biting out a scoff, Peter turns his eyes to the lake. A few logs drift aimlessly along with the wind, sending ripples across the water. A few people are with them. They bob like corks, legs rigid, arms spread. It’s only when their heads turn, lingering on where they sit on the beach, eyes accusing, that Peter rises to his feet. “Okay, he’s learned his lesson,” he coos bitterly to the swan, striding forward with a gentle grin. Bending at the knees, his hand shoots forward to snap around its neck, gripping it severely. Its webbed feet thrash, wings flapping angrily, as he drags it up and off the younger man with a disarming grin before flinging it off into the water.

The swan battles valiantly with momentum for a short second before flapping its wings madly, righting itself well enough that it slaps the water tail-first, bobbing on the lake with an indignant trill before briefly preening itself and paddling away.

Grabbing at one of Stiles’ arms, Peter yanks him to his feet with a teasing, “It’s your fault, you know. I told you swans are dicks.”

“Yeah, you did,” Stiles agrees, gasping lightly. He peers at his hand through the thin layer of blood smeared along the palm and down his wrist. “I guess I should thank you for that.” And with this his only warning, he lurches forward, slamming his fist into the apple of the Marine’s cheek with a strangled war cry… and promptly cradles it pitifully in his other hand, screeching, “Mother fucker!”

Shaking his head lightly in surprise, Peter smirks. “Pretty sure that hurt you more than it hurt me,” he points out smugly. “Not much of a thank you.”

“Jesus H. Christ shitting on a bicycle!”

“Come on – let’s get back to camp,” Peter suggests, shooting a finger in the direction of their tents. “Isabeau and Captain Navarre should be done talking now.”

Stiles gasps wetly, staring up at the man, and he winces. Without warning, his hand shoots forward again.

Steeling himself, Peter watches in open shock as Stiles stares up at him in surprise, fingers tracing the line of his jaw as though it had been broken.

“Jesus,” the younger man murmurs again. “I didn’t even leave a mark. That is so unfair.” Drawing his hand away, he steps around Peter, grumbling under his breath as he passes, and Peter…

** **

_Art by[Viktoria](http://hypnale.tumblr.com)_

Peter can’t quite breathe.

His chest is frozen mid-exhale, and his face burns from the brief moment of contact – from Stiles’ fingertips dragging along his jaw. So close. So warm. A familiar lump settles in his throat, taking root just behind his tongue; below his sinuses; bobbing with every half-assed swallow in an attempt to send it on its way. But it’s there and it’s warm, joined by a tendril from his stomach filling his limbs with fuzz and his head with cotton.

“Come on,” Stiles calls, annoyed. “This stings.”

Peter’s chest leaps.

“Shit,” he whispers blinking down at the salt lake in open shock.

“Hurry up!”

“I’m coming,” he snaps back. His voice attempts valiantly to crack, much in the way Stiles’ had not minutes prior.

“It was your idea to go back!” Stiles whines, arm waving limply toward camp, blood slipping from between his fingers to slap against the salt flats.

“I’ll be there in a goddamn minute, okay?” Peter demands under his breath. And as the younger man’s footsteps fade into the distance he collapses to his knees in the salt, falling back on his ass after a long moment of staring out at the geese as they swarm the lake.

Hands twitching, his fingers find the spot Stiles had touched, warm and wet and very much his. When he pulls them away he stares for a long moment, eyes caressing the very red, very physical reminder smeared along his skin that Stiles had, indeed, touched his face.

Suddenly, his chest is full.

Burying his face in his palms, Peter hisses out a long, angry breath.

“Shit.”

**May 30th, 2015**

It’s a good morning.

As Stiles wakes, his eyelids fluttering softly open to greet the dim, candy liquor light filtering through the side of their tent, it is to a peaceful, whispering silence. Stretching across the top of the vinyl, a branch shuffles pleasantly against its side. For a while Stiles can only stare at the stark outline of its shadow. Then, yawning widely, he brings his arms around himself to push at the ground, only to have one stop halfway around his waist, a groan accompanying the movement.

Glancing down at his hand, the man’s face twists in surprise as he finds long, thick fingers twined with his. They’re warm and wide, nearly engulfing his wrist. Messy cuticles and a light spattering of freckles lead straight to the older man snoozing lightly beside him. Peter’s chest is bare, the sleeping bag caught around his waist. Deep collarbones from three years of sparse food are on display, skin smooth and bare of much in the way of hair.

Stiles turns his attention back down to their twined hands, eyebrows drawn curiously together, before carefully disentangling his digits from Peter’s. He rises quickly to his feet. Ducking beneath the domed roof of the tent, he tugs his jeans quickly from the discarded pile of clothes in the corner, followed quickly with his shirt and flannel. Before long his socks and shoes and tugged on and his fingers find the zipper of the tent, pulling it quickly down and stepping out into the campsite.

Grabbing up Finstock, Stiles eyes the alarm clock suspiciously as it ticks innocently away. The second hand is hard at work, stuttering between the small black dashes that litter the rim of its face. A splotch of red sits comfortably in front of the hour hand. It’s almost a taunt. A pleasant taunt.

Stiles, it seems, has woken a good ten minutes before Finstock took exception to his schedule.

“Huh,” he muses quietly to himself, glancing from the still dark sky to the clock with amusement. “Would you look at that.”

**…**

“That’s disgusting!” Lydia shouts as Laura and Peter tug off their clothes. “It hasn’t been shocked in at least three years. There’s even algae.” Waving an arm in the general direction of the pool, Lydia flinches as they leap into the pool. “If you both get rashes we’re not slowing the pace!”

Diving into the filthy water of the pool, Peter kicks his legs through the water.

Laura sticks her tongue out at Lydia and laughs.

In the shadow of the large farmhouse, Stiles glances up from the flat tire with a grin. “I’m joining you when I’m done with this,” he calls.

“No, you’re not,” Peter calls. “When you’re done we’re leaving.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine. Keep all the fun to yourself.”

Drawing up to his side, Lydia collapses on the decorative swinging bench with a huff. “Save the passive aggressive chatter for later,” she tells him with faux sweetness, “when they’re covered in rashes and biking through eighty degree weather to get to DC in a windstorm.”

**June 1st, 2015**

Staring down at the mangled, twisted remnants of the Platte River Bridge, Stiles peers down into the river far below. “Tell me again why we took Lincoln Highway instead of I-80.”

“I-80 had a bridge out warning,” Laura reminds him softly. “And a note to take Lincoln Highway.”

“Right.”

Pulling away from the edge, the pair makes their way back to the road, they stride coolly up to where Peter and Lydia speak in hushed whispers.

Turning his face away from the younger woman, Peter watches them closely as they approach. “So, here’s the plan,” he tells them, voice even. “Stiles, you and I will walk opposite directions along the bank, looking for a crossing. If we’re lucky, there will be some shallows we can use to cross. Laura and Lydia will stay here with our things while we scout.”

“And what if we don’t find anything?” the younger man asks, glancing curiously between Peter and Lydia.

“Then you head back to camp when the sun begins to set,” the woman replies with a confident flip of her hair. “Which isn’t going to be in very long, so I suggest you start walking.”

Stiles blinks, looking at her curiously. “What, like now?”

“Yes,” she tells him quickly. “Right now.”

Glancing between them, eyes appraising, Laura shifts her weight heavily onto one leg as the men steps around her, talking under their breath about who should go which way. Her attention remains on Lydia. On the strands that catch the light as the wind rustles through the locks, bringing them across her shoulders and about her face in long, light-bleached threads. On the hard line of her jaw, skin taut and glistening with sweat.

“What?” the woman asks, glittering green eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Laura replies softly. “Let’s set up camp.”

**...**

“Jesus Christ!”

Attention shooting from the tent stake between her fingers, Laura shoots to her feet, racing quickly across the camp to eye Lydia suspiciously as her foot connects poorly with the side of the tent, balance flying out from beneath her and sending her to the ground in a crumpled ball of limbs. “Are you okay?” Laura asks, striding toward the woman. But as her hands come out to support Lydia’s arms, they’re swatted away.

“I don’t need any help,” she hisses.

Eyeing the tent stakes planted crooked in the brush, the older woman shakes her head. “Yeah, you kind of do.”

Jumping to her feet, Lydia shakes her head sharply, hair flying, streaked with bits of dust. “I know what I’m doing,” she insists dryly. “Just go on over to your own tent, okay? Just... “ Her voice catches deep in her throat as her eyelids flutter dangerously closed.

Laura’s mouth falls open in shock as a small, angry sob pierces the air.

“Hey,” she murmurs, brushing her long, dark ponytail over her shoulder as her feet shuffle slowly forward. “Hey, it’s okay; what is this really about?”

Lydia’s lips part prettily, gloss shining in the sun, and as her chin trembles and falls. The light glitters just right over her, placing her freckles and the glistening red of her hair on display as a hiccup bubbles from her throat.

For a moment Laura can’t believe just how beautiful she is.

“What if…” The words are stilted; angry. They fight from her throat; each a personal embarrassment. Each a battle for control and composure. But as her nose reddens and her eyes bud with tears, Lydia soldiers on softly. “What if this is it? What if what stops us is a river?”

Stepping forward carefully, Laura gathers her up in her arms. “Hey,” she whispers. “Hey, it’s alright. Just sit back for a bit – don’t worry about anything. Let us take the lead, okay?”

From the neck of her flannel, shuddering against her shirt, comes a wet sob.

**...**

When Peter arrives at camp an hour later bearing news of a crossing just up the river, Laura thanks him, climbs into her shared tent with Lydia, and smiles, disarming and pleasant.

“Backrub trade?” she suggests lightly.

With a lazy twirl of a finger of her finger through a long, strawberry blonde lock, Lydia smacks her lip gloss and turns her chin confidently to the older woman. “Sure,” she agrees lightly, turning onto her side with a careful twist of her hips. “But only if you start.”

Smiling widely, Laura steps fully into the tent and zips it shut.

**June 2nd, 2015**

Striding up to the shallows, handlebars clenched nervously between shaking hands, Stiles stares out at the water in shock. “This is not what I would classify a ‘calm part of the river,’ guys,” he protests softly.

Slapping her pannier over her shoulder, Laura strides past him and into the water without a second thought. It rushes quickly up to her knees, overtaking her thighs and hips in seconds before pooling up to her waist. It takes her little more than thirty seconds to cross, dropping the pack into the dirt before doubling back with a smug grin.

“I can carry you, _your majesty_ ,” Peter suggests dryly, adjusting his own pannier as he passes. His shorts are tied like a preppy sweater about his neck. It flaps behind him in the cool breeze, slapping his bare back like a drum.

Stiles glances down to his boxers and bare feet with a shake of his head. “You will take any excuse to get naked, won’t you?”

“Generally, yes.”

Watching as the man practically skips through the water, passing Laura with an impromptu high five, Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Lydia drawls, stepping up beside Stiles with an appreciative grin, “but I would very much like to take him up on that offer.”

“Oh my god,” the man gasps, leaping to the side with a small screech, clutching his chest as his heart pounds double-time. “What the hell?”

“Laura’s his niece. I can’t say this to her without it being weird, and Peter has _really nice arms._ ”

“It’s weird saying it to _me_.”

“You know, for Allison’s stand-in, you’re not doing a very good job,” she tells him faux sweetly.

Stiles glances over at her, surprised, as Laura passes them.

“Get a move on,” the woman tells them, squeezing the edge of her shorts with a disturbing _squelch_. “This stuff isn’t going to carry itself.”

“We should have brought swimsuits,” Stiles complains lowly before trekking quickly back to his bike, unlatching his pannier before carefully hefting it over his shoulder. Knees sagging beneath the weight, he attempts to stride up to the river as confidently as Peter and Laura had. But as soon as the river reaches halfway up his thighs he staggers. His feet shuffle through the rocks as his balance jerks out of his grasp, knees wobbling and threatening to collapse beneath him.

An arm on his elbow anchors him, drawing up upright and dragging him subtly forward.

“You have to keep moving,” Laura insists beside him, towing him right through the water. “If you stay still too long you’ll just get thrown around.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles agrees lightly. “Excellent advice.”

They pass Peter on their way to the opposite shore, and as they carefully dance around one another, the younger man finds his attention drawn right to broad shoulders and thick, powerful arms.

**June 4th, 2015**

Staring furiously up at the large, faded sign declaring the Cheyenne Ration Station closed indefinitely, Lydia turns her bike away from the small building and mounts it purposefully.

“I don’t know what we expected,” Laura murmurs under her breath. “It was a ghost town the whole way here.”

As Stiles comes pedalling up the street behind Peter, tow rope hanging low as they coast over the hill, the younger man groans as they pass Lydia by. “Oh my god, it was closed wasn’t it?”

Laura takes off after the woman, running her bike quickly up the hill before mounting the seat with a heavy grace. “Yeah, it was closed,” she tells him, passing the men quickly as she pedals up the street.

Sighing softly, Peter tugs his handlebars sharply to the right, leaning his body with the movement to lead them into a sharp turn.

The younger man follows carefully, tapping occasionally on his breaks as he grows a bit too close to the wheels before him. “We just got up that hill, too,” he pants weakly. “What next? We ride over a mountain?”

“We head to the next town,” Peter answers dryly. “That’s the only thing we can do.”

“But we don’t have any food.”

“Then we do it without food. We aren’t diabetic. We’ll make it.”

Stomping hard on the pedals as their handlebars even out and they start forward in a straight line, Stiles grumbles under his breath as they slowly ascend the very hill they’d just enjoyed.

Lydia leads them back onto 180. From there they merge back onto I-80 and slow a bit as she begins to coast, feet still against the pedals and shoulders quaking against the rhythm of the road as if the world were shattering atop them.

Glancing back at the men, Laura waves her hand in their direction before slapping it to her handles, hunching her shoulders, and quickly closing the distance between herself and Lydia.

“Is she crying?” Peter whispers, drawing back beside Stiles with narrowed eyes. He glances quickly between Laura and the man beside him.

“You’re an idiot.”

The Marine grimaces. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re an idiot,” Stiles repeats softly. “Save your breath and pedal. Take it easy while you can.”

“But shouldn’t we go up there and… say something?”

Shaking his head, Stiles stares pointedly down at his handlebars as he mutters, “Laura will know what to say better than we can.”

“What makes you say that?”

“‘Cause I’d coddle her and you’d start yelling. And right now?” He motions toward Lydia with one hand. “I’m guessing she needs something somewhere in between.”

In the distance came a great rumble, and they all glance sharply to the trees.

“What was that?” Laura snaps curiously.

“I don’t know,” Lydia murmurs weakly in reply. “But it sounds familiar.”

Again comes the noise, rumbling through the air as a steadily growing roar. And just as the last of Lydia’s tears drip from her eyes, a large truck bursts through the trees and onto the road, horn blaring and bumper slamming into Peter’s side before the tires pull it to a screaming stop.

“Go, go, go!” someone shouts. “And don’t forget their stuff!”

Four people pour from the car, advancing on them quickly. Tasers in one hand, zip-cuffs in the other, they descend on the group with loud shouts and uneven screams.

Stiles’ bike screeches to a stop, and his hands quickly find the clasp for his handlebars. But as his fingers close around the brake there’s the smallest of pricks in his stomach and then…

Pain.

The sky falls to the side as he crashes to the ground, arms and legs flying angrily, snapping back and forth before contracting into his torso like a pull-string doll. And then… it was gone. The pain. The lightheadedness. In its place were plastic cuffs locked around his wrists, and a voice in his ear telling him, “You look a little stringy,” before a shoe cracks against his head.

Moving. Clanging. Metal and plastic and a scream.

Stiles blinks his eyes open carefully. He’s in a truck, now, beside Lydia and the bikes. Laura is running up to them, eyes crazed, face shifting-

Maybe it’s just his imagination.

** **

_Art by[Viktoria](http://hypnale.tumblr.com) _

“Holy shit!” one of the men shrieks. He levels a shotgun at what used to be Laura, finger finding the trigger with horrific accuracy and firing it inches from Stiles’ face..

After this, all he can hear is a steady ringing.

Lydia shakes at his side, mouth moving weakly as her eyes stare at the mess on the truck bed. It spatters her shirt, pants, arms, and legs. Her face is clear of spray, hair falling half out of its ponytail as her mouth closes pointedly and her eyes grow dim.

Through the ringing, Stiles can barely make out what’s being said.

“Jesus.” One of their attackers coughs, taking a step away from Stiles. A woman. She’s about six and a half feet tall, with teeth stained a sharp yellow. Hair cropped military short brushes against the frame of the window as she shoves her head into the car. “Let’s get out of here. That was fuckin’ Were.”

“Language,” someone inside the cab warns.

“Another one?” a second man asks.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure that lump under the fender is the same. Let’s get out of here.”

There are two smacks, the whine of an engine, and the squeal of tires before the truck rumbles beneath them. It jumps twice in quick succession, rolling over something thick and sturdy.

The woman with the buzzed head turns back to them, eyeing Stiles with a grimace. “This one pissed himself,” she complains as she reclines against the far side of the truck bed, hands firm against the curve of the cab. “How hard did you hit him?”

“Mop it up with his shirt,” one of the men inside the truck snorts. “Toss it over the side.”

“I ain’t touchin’ that shit!” she shouts in protest. “It’s fuckin’ everywhere.”

“ _Language_.”

“Jeez, Bob-”

“My name is _Thomas_ , okay? _Thomas Bennett._ Stop calling me Bob. I don’t like it and you’re not funny.”

“I think we’re funny,” the other man argues.

“Shut up, Steve,” Bob snaps.

“Ah – it’s Rainbow. Jan, shouldn’t he call me Rainbow?”

“Shut up, both of you,” the woman, Jan, snaps, and she turns to the hostages with a strained grimace before facing the final man in the bed of the truck. “Jesus Christ, Jared, keep it in.”

At the very back of the truck, a pudgy boy grips the edge. His fingers are white against the curve of the shotgun. He heaves a long, wet breath before turning to them angrily. “I get motion sick,” he whines. “This happens every time. You all know I get motion sick.”

Burying herself into Stiles’ side, Lydia attempts to make herself look small. Behind her back, her thumbs work quickly beneath the zip cuffs. But even as her nails notch against the seam they slip away, sharply scoring her wrists. The cuffs are drawn taught; too tight for comfort. Circulation in her hands begins to wane as she wobbles precariously, the truck taking a too tight turn, and then she falls.

Jan’s gaze shoots to the younger woman with wide, appraising eyes. Her expression shifts somewhere between territorial and furious as she looks on, mouth parting smugly as she announces, “Hey guys, we’ve got a pretty one.”

“Why do you think I went straight for her?” Rainbow drawls.

“Can we fuck ‘er?” Jan sneers, easing back up to the window. “She looks like a screamer.”

“I do not _scream_ ,” Lydia gasps beneath her breath. Clicking uselessly against the bed of the truck, her fingernails slide one last time off the seam of her cuffs as her voice drowns in the roar of the engine. Legs slipping a few ineffective times against the thick coat of polyurethane, she rights herself to ease into the line of Stiles’ side. Glancing from Jan to Jered, and then finally to the truck cab, she settles herself as far up on her legs as the motion will allow her, whispering urgently in her companion’s ear. “Are you good to run?”

Stiles flinches away from her breath, whining lightly as his head throbs.

“Stiles?”

He groans.

Turning on Jan, Lydia snarls. “He has a concussion. Are you just going to let your hostage die?”

“Saves us the trouble,” the woman laughs.

“You know, I don’t think she’s picked up on who we are, yet,” Rainbow coos from inside the cab.

Lydia glances between them, alarmed, as Jan settles up to her with a feral smile.

“You see, little missy,” the woman begins smoothly. “When we get to our camp, you know what we’re gonna do first?”

For a few furious seconds there’s only the sound of the truck.

“We’re going to bleed you into some cups.” A smile breaks across her face as she leans back against the far side of the bed, slapping the floor with a hoot. “We’re gonna sling you up on a fence upside down and slit your wrists open. Tell ‘er what we do next, Tom.”

Inside the cab, Tom laughs, and before long he’s leaning out the window with a wide, perfectly preserved white grin set handsomely in dark features. “It’s quite simple, really, when you break it all down,” he announces dryly. “First we drain you. Then we skin you. Jan does that – she has the most experience. The skin, you see, is great for blankets and carrying water. By the time all you’re blood’s gone you’re just a limp sack of flesh anyway. After that we separate your limbs as best we can and boil them until the meat just falls off the bone. And can you guess what we do after that, little Red?”

“You eat them,” Lydia gapes.

“Correction,” Jan coos, sweet as oil. “We. Eat. _You_.”

**...**

Reality is a battering ram to the lungs. Beating its way through with sharp knock-knocks and sweet, soothing words to make it feel like it’ll get better soon. But then it’s back, pointed and angry and wet.

It takes Laura thirty seconds to start breathing again.

When she stutters in the first breath, it feels like needles and liquid fire, acid flooding her lungs and burning its way through into the open air.

“Try not to breathe,” a familiar voice echoes ominously above her. “I’m digging out the  last of the pellets.”

Grunting, Laura’s fingers climb up her sides, drawing away from the pavement to fumble across her chest. But as soon as they stumble across buttons strong hands push them aside.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re useless right now,” Peter snaps.

“Fuppoo,” she hisses through her teeth. Blood bubbles to her throat as the mangled words fight past her lips. Head lolling to the side, her stomach heaves as her breath catches beneath the fluid. Her lungs seize once, twice, three times before she manages a weak cough.

Above her, the man gives a triumphant cry as his fingers dig into one final divot in the woman’s chest. Then, knuckles whitening as his nails clamp about something, Peter snaps his hand out of the woman’s lungs.

And Laura _screams_.

Peter holds the bullet aloft with an appraising expression, the nails bracketing the bebe animalistic, standing apart from his hands, long and sharp. But as he tosses the projectile to the ground they shrink and draw back. When his fingers rest on her shoulder, his claws have transitioned quickly into plain, rounded human nails. “Give it a few seconds,” he tells her, voice an even, soothing tone. “You should be fine, soon.”

Wheezing anxiously through her nose, Laura’s fingers card swiftly through the divots trailing through the pavement. Her free hand runs up her chest, tugging her shirt together against the glaring heat of the sun. Clearing her throat weakly, she attempts a small, “What happened?”

Her comment is met with ringing, heavy silence.

“Peter?”

His gaze turns away, hands slapping against the ground to push him to his feet, shoes scraping the pavement as he steps purposely toward the bike lying abandoned on the highway.

Sliding her elbow to the ground, Laura turns her weight carefully onto it, shirt flapping open to display skin reaching tendrils across her breasts, sewing itself back into place as she rises to her knees. “Wait,” she demands, glancing at her uncle as he rights the bike, before stumbling quickly to her feet. “What’s-”

“They’re gone.”

Her eyes screw up, nose wrinkling in open confusion. “What?”

“They’re _gone_ ,” he parrots sharply as the handlebars squeal under his grip, twisting suddenly down and back as his arms work spontaneously. As the words echo, Peter stares down at his work with lips thinned to a sharp, crooked line. “I was under the car, you had holes in your chest, and they got away.”

“Then we go after them.”

“They were in a _car_.”

“Well, they can’t have gotten far, then.”

“Laura…” Peter’s fingers draw away from the handlebars, pinching the bridge of his nose as a groan flits out from between his teeth. “What part of ‘car’ do you not understand?”

“What part of, ‘I’ve been preparing for a Zombie Apocalypse since I was ten’ do you not comprehend?” she snaps, drawing up to rest her elbows against her legs. “To start with, that was a Ford F-150. They only get about 15 miles to the gallon. Now, in case you hadn’t noticed, gasoline is illegal. That means whatever gas they’re running on has been rationed for three years. And rationed well if they’re working with a vehicle with such low milage. So, Mr. Marine, what do you figure from here?”

For a long moment, Peter can only stare at his niece in open shock, jaw propped open to enjoy the breeze. “They…” He trails off, and his gaze turns momentarily to his hands, tracing over the smudges of blood across them. “They came out of the woods with the car in waiting, which means they have a vantage point nearby. Probably a treehouse and a sentry with binoculars. Even with solar chargers, the range of a walkie-talkie isn’t very large, assuming they have solar chargers.  This means the sentry can’t be far from their camp.

“The attack itself was almost pristine. They were quick. Took out the largest threat, grabbed the smallest targets, and shot the final threat. From what I could hear, you weren’t the first of our kind they’ve encountered. Considering they’re alive, they’ve either gotten good at running, good at shooting, or both. They’ve been doing this for a while. Years, probably, going by how much gas they must have hoarded to still be running a truck after three years. But gas goes bad if you don’t properly maintain it, so even if they’re not using it their reserves would be shrinking. Then there’s the town. It’s abandoned. The ration station is shut down…”

Laura tugs her shirt tighter against her sternum as her uncle trails off, fingers trailing along the chrome length of the handlebars. “What does the ration station have to do with any of this?”

Glancing sharply up at his niece, the man’s eyes flash wide open in an instant of heavy realization before his head bobs quickly from side to side. “They’re going to eat them.”

“What?”

“The people in the car,” Peter answers succinctly. “They’re going to eat Stiles and Lydia.”

**...**

“Stiles.”

“Nng.”

“S _tiles._ ”

Brown eyes flutter open, and the wounded man groans long and agonizingly before they slide shut against the glaring light of the setting sun.

“Stiles, you need to stay awake,” Lydia insists weakly, attempting to lift her head upright. At her back, a chain link fence creaks ominously as she takes a deep, solid breath. Her legs are fastened just below the top; arms affixed below her head, hanging down. “If you’re not awake, we won’t be able to get out.”

“I wouldn’t try to escape if I were you.”

Lydia jumps, feet, hands, and torso snapping sharply against the zip ties affixing her to the fence. A strangled sob screeches from her lips, tearing through the air as the jagged, uneven gouges in her wrist jab against the neon restraints.

Stepping around the fence, the chubby man from the back of the truck – Jared, his hands juggling pans in place of a shotgun – carefully toes a line of dark ash ringing the camp. He takes extra care not to disturb it, wobbling slightly before throwing a foot to the other side for balance. After righting himself, he casually steps over to the hostages with a weak smile, meeting the woman’s eyes. “Struggling will only make you die faster,” he points out. “And if you escape we’ll just shoot you. Then we all lose because you’ll be dead and I’ll have to pick the bullets out of your spine. We only have the shotgun shells left, now. Ran out of .44 ammo last week. It might not even be instant.”

“I hope I vomit on you,” Lydia sneers with utmost sincerity.

“It’ll save me some trouble, if you don’t mind,” Jared agrees warmly. “We’re going to have to expel the contents of your stomach eventually. That’s why we hang people upside down. Usually they’re vomiting and stuff by two minutes in – like that guy.” His hand motions generally towards the man to her right, fingers pointing to the line of spittle trailing from Stiles’ lips into the filthy pans beneath them. “If you puke and shit yourself right now, that would be really helpful. You’re blood is a valuable asset, and we don’t often get clean samples.”

Behind their captor, in the depths of the trees, there’s a flutter of movement; a tanned stretch of skin sliding over a wide trunk. Lydia’s eyes snap anxiously away from the pans clattering as Jared sets them down.

“This batch is already contaminated thanks to your friend,” Jared continues, unawares.

Eyes flicking from the line of trees to the man below her, Lydia’s attention lingers on the long strap wound across their captor’s chest, propping the length of a shotgun against his back. As he bends forward the woman shivers, cautiously eyeing the barrel as it levels with her face. “You killed Laura,” she recalls in a minute whimper.

“Was that her name?”

Green eyes flicker anxiously between the gun and the man in the trees. “Yeah.” Her lips catch against each other, popping loud in the silence.

Gently pushing yellowed leaves to the side, Peter creeps slowly up to the dark line across the ground.

“Although I doubt I killed her,” Jared offers warmly. “Her kind are tough.”

“Her…” Lydia’s voice catches in her throat as she suddenly recalls a flash of fangs, a face shifting out of place, and hands flying forward tipped with a hint of claws, _gold, glowing eyes_. “Her kind?” Her gaze settles on the man in the bushes, adhering to the fingers that rises like an unsteady balloon and tap at the widest part of a tanned forehead.

Then he brings his head steadily through the air, snapping it forward with a determined look with his eyes fixed on her.

“Werewolves.”

In her chest, Lydia’s breath screeches to a hollow, aching halt.

Gripping the corners of her pan with white knuckles, Jared struggles to lift it. It rises the first few inches, catching strawberry blonde strands in the mix and dying them a dark, crusty red before he rests the container on one knee. Then, slowly, his head rises as his gaze shifts to land on Lydia.

Behind him, Peter taps his forehead once more.

“I know it’s a lot to take in-”

Fingers curling in the links, Lydia braces her entire body against the fence before snapping her neck away from the chain, forehead slapping against her captor’s nose without a loud and satisfying crack.

Jared falls back quickly, pan dropping to the ground and sending a wave of blood sloshing over the side and into the dirt. It floods up until the dark line of soot ringing the fence, stopping for a bare second before soaking through and washing the smallest bit away.

Before the woman can gasp, Peter’s hands wrap around a pale chin and snap it to the side with an all too audible _crack_. Above, the leaves rustle pleasantly in a warm breeze as the corpse flops inelegantly to the ground. In the distance, a squirrel chats heatedly with a small opossum even as a string of quickly cooling saliva drips from the lifeless mouth of the small man. The sun dapples the forest floor, flooding the small camp and warming the gentle pool of urine seeping from the corpse formerly known as Jared.

“Let’s go,” Peter drawls softly, stepping around the dead lump to approach the woman, reaching quickly for his knife.

“You were hit by a car,” Lydia hisses angrily.

Dragging the tool from his pocket, his fingers swiftly dig into the divot of the blade, drawing it out to shine in the evening light. Slipping his nails deftly along the edge, he wipes away a smudge of dirt before fitting it quickly between Lydia’s left hand and her neon restraints. “I got better.”

“You got _better_ ,” she mocks. “They ran you over with a _car_.”

He grips the handle firmly, then drags the blade diagonally along the edge of the zip tie with an affirmative grunt. “And I got better. People do that all the time.”

“Not in half an hour!”

“Just call me the Black Knight, then. Or kuh-ni-git, if you prefer.”

Lydia purses her lips as the words leave his mouth, eyes narrowing against the piercing light of the sun. Then, drawing her hand back against the fence, she tightly whispers, “One.”

Peter’s fingers pause for the smallest of instants as his eyes flick to the woman, eyeing her carefully before continuing with his work.

“Two,” she murmurs as the knife catches in the plastic, gaze not straying from his face as he quickly repositions the blade. Shortly, the neon restraint gives with a great snap, and she grins in victory as he draws his hands away with a sigh. “Five,” she drawls.

“So you did catch-” he begins. But as the words meet the air her hand descends, slapping sharp against his cheek and lancing her nails into the exposed flesh of his jaw and nose, scoring them with deep, angry scratches.

And, as he flinches away, she watches with a cold, intense gaze as his skin draws quickly back together.

“Werewolf,” she breathes.

Peter meets her eyes with a dark expression. “Do you want to be let down or not?”

**...**

Pacing the length of the wide treehouse, Laura stomps appreciatively on the center floorboard with an appreciative grin. “Good use of nails,” she notes casually, taking in the triangles of steel dots holding the floor in place. Her shoes are dark against the wood, caked with mud and appearing almost a shadow beside the bright, waxed boards. She turns to the window, peering out with a wide smile as she overlooks the far off road with a heavy sigh. The shrubland burns in the sunlight, the sky ablaze with pinks and reds as the shadows grow long and the grasses dim with the fading day. Her eyes trace lazily across the road, staring pointedly at the dark smudges on the highway where she and Peter had fallen.

She turns away from the window as a hiss sounds from the corner. Her eyes light on a young woman, face beaten and spine visibly broken. “Did you say something?” Laura asks, eyebrows arching sarcastically. “Or was that just air hissing out of your lungs?”

As no reply comes, she turns to the far window with a grunt.

Far below, several yards out, a ring of ash sits around a small encampment. There are four small buildings – compact, solid, and tastefully decorated with a small army of garden gnomes. “Someone went to Ikea,” Laura murmurs to herself with a derisive snort. Her eyes follow the line to a fence cage, where two figures hang limply.

A man approaches.

Lydia strikes.

Laura grins as Peter crosses over the line of ash. Snatching her flannel from around her waist, she draws it around her shoulders and strides quickly to the ladder. Grabbing up Peter’s bike, she lifts it effortlessly, pannier and all, hoisting it over her shoulder and breaking into an easy jog. The buckles clack as she makes her way to the camp, feet slapping the ground in an easy one-two-one-two rhythm, broken by the occasional bounce or kicked rock. The sun sinks beneath the line of shrubs in the distance, and as Laura approaches the camp she hops happily over the line of ash ringing it, depositing the bike behind the nearest shed before easing carefully around the side.

“Jared’s taking a while to get those pans changed,” Steve drones.

“You know him,” Jan drawls dismissively. “He likes to talk to them first. Find out where they’re from. Talk about the fuckin’ weather.”

“I guess,” the man concedes. “He’s a strange one.”

“You’re one to talk, _Rainbow,_ ” Tom teases.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Can you children stop flirting for five seconds?” Jan snaps.

Peering around the shed, Laura glances over the three clustered around a crackling campfire. They’re seated on lawn chairs, flanked by tall, closed patio umbrellas. Off to the side is a small green bird bath. Decorative wire leaves trail down the stem and along the edge, raised just enough from the sloped sides to be used as a small perch.

Jan waves for Steve dismissively. “Go check on Jared, would you?” she drawls.

“Sure, Chief,” the man croons amusedly, saluting her mockingly before rising slowly to his feet with a groan.  “I swear, the more we sit in these the comfier they get.”

Laura glances to the fence in the distance, eyebrows furrowing. Her arms go tense, slipping against the wall of the shed and sending a heavy _clang_ through the clearing.

“What was that?”

Laura sighs, fingers clenching sharply into her palms before she braces her knees together and… jumps.

She goes for Steve first – the closest, and the only one armed. He stands alone beside the fire, fingers just beginning to fumble for the shotgun slung at his side before Laura descends, claws crawling out from the inflamed tips of her fingers, darkening to a blackish-brown as they sink solidly into his throat. They slide through swiftly, spattering the fire with blood and smaller pieces of his larynx. Steve falls without ceremony. His corpse slips into the fire, and the flames sputter madly as his face attempts to smother the coals.

“What the fuck?” Tom shrieks, dark face spattered with a decorative spray of his companion’s vocal chords.

Jan reaches instinctively for her taser.

Laura takes hold of the closest umbrella, tearing it out of the ground and bringing it down upon the woman with a solid _thunk_. It rings through the clearing like a broken bell, harmonizing with the splintering of a worn, well loved lawn chair.

Tom is the last to react, hands finding his taser and fumbling with the trigger before it drops to the ground. A cough wracks his body, spraying a sloppy cloud of blood over his lips. He glances down at his stomach in disbelief. There, Laura’s hand slowly sinks into the flesh just below his ribs. “What-”

“Consider this Karma,” the woman drawls. A shiver wracks the man’s body, and Laura grins. Withdrawing her hand, her fingers curl protectively along the narrow section of an uneven intestine. “Mm,” she coos. “Chitterlings. You know, I haven’t had chitterlings in years. Very literally.”

“You’re a freak,” Jan spits.

Laura glances toward the woman beneath the umbrella. “You know, I’d probably take you more seriously if the amount of irony wasn’t very literally palpable,” she drawls, giving the intestines a firm squeeze.

Tom utters a quiet whimper before falling over on his side, mouth wide open and legs twitching weakly through the dirt at his feet.

Drawing her hand out of the man’s stomach, Laura bends to snatch the shotgun from Steve’s pale corpse before turning to her final adversary.

“So you’re just going to kill us all, then?” Jan drawls. “Not going to ask why the ration station closed? Why the town is empty? You’re not even the least bit curious?”

Laura shifts the gun between her hands, smearing blood along the handle and barrel as she arranges it. “You know, that didn’t even occur to me,” she admits. “But the thing is…” Glancing up, the nurse smiles pleasantly. “Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have fucked with?” Laura drawls, fingers drawing tight against the shotgun’s forestock, drawing it back with a sharp and cinematic _clack_.  A shell clatters to the ground, loud and sharp and heavy in the veritable silence. Her eyebrows arch as she draws it up, taking a few measured steps around Jan to press the barrel ominously to the woman’s nose.  “That’s me.”

“End of the road, then,” the woman breathes. Her chest heaves laboriously, air coming short and fast in her lungs.

“Got any prayers?” the Nurse asks. “If you do, say them now.”

Jan laughs, then nods. “Yeah, actually. I-”

 _Crack_.

Laura shakes her head, ears singing in the blistering silence that follows in the wake of a gunshot. Her finger falls away from the trigger with a lazy twitch. Dropping the gun atop the shattered chair, she steps away from the fresh corpse with a dry grimace. Her shoes squelch wetly through the moistening dirt, knocking aside rocks as she steps around the firepit. But as she rounds the former Steve her feet draw to a stop. Peeking out from the man’s pocket is a dark shape, dotted with white and red. Bending down, she grips it between two fingers before dragging it slowly from the body’s jeans. Holding it up before her face, a smile spreads across her lips as her eyes caress the teeth of a key and the smooth lines of a fob.

Turning her eyes to Steve’s body, she gives it a solid kick in the stomach, fresh blood sloshing from its neck. “That was for Peter,” she tells it dryly before glancing around. Here gaze falls on the F-150 and, grinning, she strides purposely towards it.

“I'm bringing home a baby bumblebee,” she hums under her breath as she approaches, thumb digging purposefully into the front of the fob. From the car comes a deep click as the doors unlock. Dragging the driver’s side open, she hops quickly into the seat, keys jingling at her side. “Won't my mommy be so proud of me, I'm bringing home a baby bumblebee. Ouch!” Landing solidly in the driver’s seat, she exclaims sharply with her hands held up in shock. “It stung me!” Reaching forward, she slides the keys into the ignition, shoulders shifting from side to side as the engine turns over. “I'm squishing up the baby bumblebee. Won't my mommy be so proud of me.”

Dissolving into hums, she pulls the wheel off to the side, disengages the brake, and glances amusedly at the gas meter with a wide, amused grin.

Full.

**...**

Just as the plastic securing Stiles’ legs to the fence are cut away, Peter’s knife dulling against the final neon zip tie before it gives way, a large red truck rumbles up to the fence. At his side, Lydia’s throat lets loose a terrified squeak, but he shakes his head. “It’s Laura,” he says simply, hefting Stiles into his arms.

Slowing to a crawl, the truck squeals to a stop beside them. Its tires are caked with mud. The wide bed is loaded with all four bikes, handlebars peeking out from beneath a tarp.

Peter strides up to the side door quickly, nodding his head at the handle with a sharp glance at Lydia. “Get that, would you?” he asks, adjusting his hands beneath the younger man’s legs.

The woman doesn’t hesitate, stepping up to the car and pulling the door aside after a brief pause to rise up onto her toes. She makes quick work of the back door hatch, as well, stepping aside to make the men room as Laura peers down at them.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Concussion,” Lydia replies quickly. “And we’ve both been bled a bit.”

Shifting Stiles higher up against his shoulder, the older man moves slowly toward the truck. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot again, landing hesitantly against the step up into the cab.

“Shit,” Laura hisses. Glancing into the back seat, she sighs. Popping off her seatbelt, she climbs out of the car with a groan, feet clattering against the dirt as she lands. “Make sure he’s laying down,” she commands, reaching beneath the tarp and into the truck bed. “Do _not_ elevate his head.”

Settling Stiles into the backseat, Peter glances from the driver’s side door, then back to the groggy man beneath him. He’s pale against the black interior; face drained and blank. The older man’s fingers are slow to withdraw, lingering against Stiles’ filthy hoodie and the back curve of his knees. His eyes follow the length of a pale throat, leading into the skinny chest that heaves up and down for air. The space is small; barely enough to loom over the injured man. Small enough to hear the uneasy rasp in his lungs. Small enough to feel the heat being sapped from the very air around pale fingers.

Stepping around Lydia, Laura climbs into the foot space of the back seat with her kit handy. “Peter, drive,” she tells him firmly. “Lydia, your wrists have clotted. Get in the passenger seat. I’ll see to you in a bit.”

The silence that falls in the wake of her commands feels like jelly in Peter’s lungs as he glances from Stiles to niece, then drops out of the car. Closing the back door, he climbs into the driver’s seat with a grimace.

Before long, Lydia is in the passenger seat and they’ve started slowly toward the highway.

In the back seat, Stiles groans.

“Is there any music in this thing?” Peter asks nervously.

Lydia glances at him suspiciously, eyes lingering on the subtle tension threading throughout the man’s form, before reaching obediently for the glove box. It pops open without fanfare, presenting two blank, home-burned CDs and a Snickers wrapper. Her fingers snatch up the top disc without hesitation. Popping it into the dash, she watches with bated breath as the display reads, “Track one.”

“ _And out of the darkness the zombie did crawl. True pain and suffering he brought to them all._ ”

Leaning forward in her seat, Lydia’s thumb jams viciously into the volume button.

“Laura?” Stiles gasps in the silence, confused.

Peter’s eyes find the rear view mirror, catching Laura’s head as her attention swings to her patient. Deep in his chest comes the smallest of flutters. A sharp, angry throb that leaves his breath short and his stomach rolling, and his fingers tighten against the wheel.

Beside him, Lydia glances away, suspicion lining her lips as she focuses on the passing brush.

“You were shot in the chest,” Stiles continues weakly.

Laura shakes her head. “I got better.”

“Better?” He giggles. “Are you a  _superhero_?”

The woman laughs, shaking her head amusedly. “Sure,” she agrees. “I’m a little bit superhero.”

“ _Sweet_.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Uh… Three,” he answers promptly. “Is everything alright?”

After a brief moment, she nods, confidence lighting her eyes. “Yeah,” she tells him honestly. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Or it will be.”

Ducking his head, Peter grins.

**...**

Peering out the window, Peter glances into the back seat at Stiles’s sleeping face. His mouth is slack, drool sliding along his cheek as air hisses through his mouth. Beside him, Laura dozes in her seat, eyes fluttering closed before her lungs start a deep, even rhythm, matching Lydia’s breath for breath.

“Hey, Stiles,” he whispers softly. “We’re passing a farm. I thought you should know.”

Ahead, the engine rumbles loudly.

Peter’s lips twitch into a soft smile. “I guess you should sleep.”

**June 5th, 2015**

Stiles peers into the camp stove, nose furrowing against the rising smell. Staring at the small, fleshy limbs laid out upon the skillet, he frowns. “Am I doing this right?”

The flap of the girl’s tent is pushed aside. Popping out, a head of strawberry blonde hair staggers toward the stove before drawing to a startled, abrupt pause. “What,” Lydia begins darkly, “the holy hell,” she continues, brushing her hair from her eyes, “is _that_.”

“Flying squirrel,” he replies glibly. Turning away from the stove, he faces her with a sarcastic grin. “Want a bite?”

“Where did you get a squirrel?”

“ _Flying_ squirrel,” Stiles corrects quickly. “And Peter caught it.”

Her eyes flutter shut as her head bobs to side to side, hand slipping into her bangs to draw them back from her face. “How can you even think of eating meat right now?” she gasps, lips trembling lightly.

“Mostly being numb to the fact that we were kidnapped by cannibals,” Stiles admits lightly. “There was a flying squirrel in our tent. Peter literally ripped its head off, I was hungry, and now I have sausage. Or, like, slightly chicken shaped sausage. Except, like… it’s membrane is ruptured so I guess it’s just really thick flying squirrel bacon.”

Lydia glances between Stiles and the stove before stepping up to a large rock. Tugging up the hem of her jeans, she takes a cautious seat. “I did the math last night.”

Stiles frowns, glancing up from his squirrel. “What math?”

“We’re just outside Omaha,” she tells him. “We’ve passed through Nebraska entirely. There’s only 1,100 miles left to DC.”

“Oh.”

“If we keep our pace we should get there in two weeks.”

“That’s… amazing. Wow. That’s incredible. That’s-”

“I think your meat is tainted,” she interjects sharply, rising to her feet and striding quickly back into her tent. Once inside, she draws to a pause, staring down at the older woman lying peacefully on top of their sleeping bags.

After a long, tense moment, she settles down and falls back asleep.

**...**

Striding into camp with rations in hand, Peter watches in mild confusion as Stiles dumps the contents of the skillet into a bush. “Was there something wrong with it?”

**...**

After five hours of mind-numbing silence, Laura turns her bike off the road and onto a private driveway.

Peter’s head flies around, glancing from where Lydia continues down the road, back to Stiles puttering about just a few feet behind, then back to his niece. “Hey,” he calls loudly, tapping lightly on his brake.

Behind him, Stiles fumbles quickly for his own, eyes widening sharply.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he shouts after her.

From the lead, Lydia glances quickly behind her, front tire wobbling precariously as her grip on the handlebars goes slack.

“Laura!” he shouts again, turning off into the driveway.

“Whoa, hey, give a guy some warning,” Stiles protests behind him. Turning off the highway, he pants heavily as he twists his bike to follow Peter's, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

It's a while before they catch up with Laura, Lydia trailing far behind on the beaten dirt road as they draw up to a small farm house.

“We're taking a break,” the older woman announces. “No more riding, today. Doctor's orders.”

“That's ridiculous,” Lydia objects as her bike pulls into the driveway. “We've barely gone forty miles.”

“Yeah, we have,” Laura agrees sharply, “and yesterday you and Stiles were bleeding out onto the ground tied to a fence and surrounded by cannibals. We're stopping here.” Climbing off her bike, Laura sets the kickstand with a flick of her shoe.

“You can't be serious,” Lydia protests as she strides into the house, foot snapping out to crack the front door wide open on its hinges.

**...**

Glancing over the wide kitchen island, Peter purses his lips contemplatively before he asks softly, “So… Penny for your thoughts?”

Without looking up from the drawer he’s rustling through, Stiles shakes his head. “We don’t have currency any more.”

The older man shakes his head, then turns back to cupboard at his feet retrieving a tall bottle of wine. His eyebrows arch amusedly. “Score,” he drawls, grinning lightly. But when his companion remains silent, he sighs. His attention flicks briefly to Stiles’ freshly bandaged wrists before demanding sharply, “What’s going on with you?”

Without warning, Stiles slams the drawer shut and turns on him. “What’s going on?” he snaps. “You’re a  _werewolf_!”

“Yeah!” Peter confirms venomously. “So?”

Burying his head in his hands, the younger man groans. “ _So_ , I’m still trying to adjust to the fact that you’re not  _dead_. No, you’re just a _mythical creature_!” His voice builds to a scream, climbing the registers until his hands have slapped forcefully against the counters, sending the drawers shivering in their runners.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” the Marine insists sharply. Resting his arms on the counter, he attempts to lean over it to peer Stiles in the eye, only to find his gaze avoided. “It’s not a big deal,” he repeats, softer.

“Fuck you.”

“What?”

“You want to know something?” Stiles snaps turning on him with narrow, furious eyes. “I have, like, four people in my life that I care about. Three are back in Beacon Hills, and the other is Lydia. And you? You happen to be working your way up to place number five. And I saw you get hit by a car. Up close. In person. I thought you were _dead_. And then…” He trails off, motioning to Peter’s whole. “And then you’re a werewolf?” Voice cracking, the younger man turns back to the sink with a tiny, “It’s a lot to take in, okay?”

A silence settles between them, and before long – with not much else to do – Peter holds the bottle of wine aloft and asks, “Will this help?”

**...**

“ _... just a **mythical creature**!_ ”

Lydia’s eyes stray to the kitchen, fingers twitching lightly in Laura’s lap.

“I didn’t think I’d have to remind you to hold still,” the older woman notes, dabbing carefully at the light stretch of incomplete scabs mapping Lydia’s wrist, cotton ball pinched lightly between her fingers.

Turning away from the kitchen, Lydia peers curiously up at her as the commotion in the adjacent room dies to a whisper. “How fast would it take you to heal from something like this?” she inquires. “Just a ballpark estimate.”

The nurse shrugs. “Ten, maybe fifteen seconds.”

“What if someone shot you in the head?”

Grabbing at a roll of gauze, Laura  sighs. “We’re not immortal,” she drawls slowly, “if that’s what you’re getting at. The only difference between you and me is that you heal very slowly and the diseases we catch are different.”

“Do you transform on full moons?”

Rolling her eyes, Laura sets about setting a sterile pad on the length of Lydia’s wound.

**...**

“ _Fucking testicles_.”

Peter peers over the arm of his chair, amused. “Excuse me?”

“My friends are _testicles_ , man,” Stiles hisses, arms flopping limply along the hardwood floors. “Me and Scott – Jackson used to call us testicles left,” his right arm slaps limply beside his head,” and right.” His left hand smacks the leg of Peter’s chair, and a small noise of discomfort slides from his lips. Then, shaking his head, he wiggles his torso goofily before twitching his head to the side. “My dad, his mom, Scott – they’re like my testicles, man. I gotta watch after… after my  _testicles_. I’ve got, like, five testicles now. Not including my actual balls.”

“You’re drunk,” the older man notes, taking a languid sip from his own glass. He swirls the wine about, admiring the color against the dark backdrop of the room.

“ _You’re_ drunk.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Peter drawls back.

“If you can’t drunk then _I_ can’t get drunk!”

“I’m a werewolf. We metabolize it too quickly.”

“Werewolves don’t even exist, man!” Stiles whines sharply. “They’re, like, nice rich people. They don’t actually fucking _exist_. We really wish they did, but they don’t. We have no Bruce Wayne. Your boss is not going to cover your funeral expenses when we die. It’s a myth, like Bugs Bunny or The Antarctic Opera House for Penguins.”

“You’re very drunk,” Peter corrects himself under his breath.

Slapping his hands over his face, Stiles hisses out in a long, tired whisper, “ _I am so fucking drunk._ ”

**June 6th, 2015**

Peter wakes to movement. A large hand grabs at his wrist, lifting it away from a starved, boney waist and dropping it back to the mattress in the early hours of the morning. Cracking one eye slowly open, the older man watches as his companion rises from the bed, boxers hanging precariously from sharp hipbones. He watches as the younger man hops into the hallway, hands tucked carefully beneath his armpits, half jogging through the door as he pulls it open wide.

Eyes sliding shut, Peter shifts his leg a bit further into the warm blankets left in the younger man’s wake, but draws to an abrupt stop as his companion strolls back in, arms laden with another comforter.

Dropping it over the top of the bed, Stiles shakes it out over the covers before climbing back between the sheets. His fingers hiss against the fabric as it slips through, his fingers curling around Peter’s wrist and bringing the older man’s arm back around his waist.

As the younger man’s breathing even out, Peter’s eyes blink open in surprise.

And in his ears, his heart beats a heavy rhythm.

**...**

“Fuck.”

Peering accusingly up at the bridge doing a rather impressive interpretive dance of the McDonald’s logo, Laura blows out a loud, wet, uncomfortably long raspberry. “Whelp, guess we’re wading.”

“Waiting for what?” Stiles drawls. “A magic bridge? Water nymphs? Mermaids?”

“Not waiting, wading,” Laura insists sharply. “Across the river. Peter will take our stuff, and I’ll take the both of you.”

The younger man’s eyebrows arch amusedly. “Wait, what?”

Climbing off his bike, Peter reaches for his hem, lifting his shirt off in one smooth movement.

“Crikey, would you look at that. Here we have the elusive Peter Hale in his natural habitat; stripping down to practically nothing for no fucking reason. Watch out for the teeth; he’ll get ya,” Stiles drawls in a poor Australian accent. “Seriously, though, could you maybe hesitate next time?”

Turning to the younger man with a sly grin, Peter balls his shirt in his hands and announces, “When you’ve slept with as many people as I have, you stop hesitating.”

“Jesus Christ, I do not need to think about your sex life.” He turns away, climbing off his bike and checking the straps of his pannier.

The line of Peter’s mouth flutters, cheek twitching, eyes flinching slightly closed before he turns his attention to his shorts. Undoing the button quickly and shoving them to the ground, he peels off his shoes and socks and shoves them quickly into his bags before grabbing the bike by its center support and lifting it easily up to his shoulder with one hand.

“What-” Stiles gasps, hopping away and watching in awe as the older man does the same with his things. “Do you have super strength or something?” A hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns animatedly to follow Laura’s hands as she guides him over to Lydia.

Bending at the knees, the woman points to her shoulders insistently. “Climb on,” she says, glancing at the both of them.

Lydia slides onto her shoulder in an instant, but Stiles takes a bit longer, eyeing her carefully. But as he settles into place, the older woman rises to her feet, bringing them as easy as potato sacks.

“Werewolves,” Stiles murmurs to himself as Peter races through the raging river, holding the bikes above his shoulders as the water smashes sharply up to his chest.

“I knew his arms were too perfect to be real,” Lydia drawls, eyes drawing across the distant man’s glistening torso.

“Is this part of the werewolf thing?” Stiles shouts over the raging river.

“Yes,” is the distant reply.

Sighing lightly, Stiles glanced over Peter’s form with appreciation. “God, you weren’t kidding about his arms. They’re ridiculous.”

In the distance, Peter stumbles.

Laura snorts.

Stiles blinks. “Oh, god, please tell me you don’t have super hearing.”

“Compared to _you_. Ready for this?” Laura asks, stepping up to the rocky beach. “It’s gonna be cold.”

“Well-” the younger man begins, only to break into a scream as she leaps into the water, submerging them up to their hips in frigid, swiftly moving currents. “OH MY GOD.”

**June 7th, 2015**

After passing through Stuart, Iowa, the group powers through another long stretch of highway. The wind is bitter, almost sharp, and bits of debris flutter about the road like anxious squirrels. A dilapidated Burger King advert drifts across the road like a tumbleweed before catching on a bush.

“You know,” Stiles mutters under his breath after a long stretch of silence, “if you were really werewolves wouldn’t you need to run around on full moons? Howl and eat babies and all that?”

Tapping lightly on her break, Laura falls in beside him. “That’s just a stereotype,” she tells him, leaning forward on her handlebars. “We learn to control ourselves, over time, just like any child who needs to learn control. How else do you think we’d survive?”

“Then what about silver?”

“Stereotype derived from poorly translated legend.”

“Wolfsbane?”

“Is a deadly poison and would kill anyone.”

“Huh.” He glances from the road to the woman before turning his eyes back front, bike wobbling ominously. “So you can be killed.”

Laura hums to herself. “Well, yeah. Anyone can be killed. We’re werewolves, not Gods.”

“How much does it take to kill you?”

“Not much.”

“Says the woman shot in the chest with a shotgun.”

She chortles. “If it’s not an instant kill, we can recover from it,” she tells him, reaching one hand back to brush her ponytail behind her shoulder as the sharp wind draws to an abrupt halt and it begins to wag back and forth beside her ear. She glances momentarily as the brush and neat line of dead bushes give way to a house as they pass, panting lightly. “We don’t get sick all that often, but it’s usually from different things than humans. Things that can kill us. I don’t know what a cold is like, but I do know what it’s like to wake up when you’re fourteen and see things because of a hundred-and-seventeen fever.”

“You have your own diseases?”

“Of course we have our own diseases,” she drawls. “We’re just as human as you guys – just with slightly different immune systems. Shooting us in the head will kill us. We don’t grow back limbs. Depending on how badly we get burned, our healing abilities are stunted. And… is it just me or is the sky kind of green?”

All eyes turn to the sky, staring at the oddly colored scape before them.

“Huh,” Lydia huffs in front.

In the distance, the clouds begin to twist, curling into a long, thin funnel and reaching delicately for the earth.

“ _HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK_!” Stiles screams.

“To the house!” Lydia screams, pulling into a sharp turn and rising up to her feet on her pedals to screech back to the farmhouse they had passed. “To the house!”

Following Laura and Peter in their turns, Stiles screeches, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! You’ve got to be mother. Fucking. Kidding-” And as his mouth falls open once more, a gust of wind slaps him in the side, sending him flying to the ground, accompanied by the sharp crack of the tow rope drawing taut and snapping.

For a long, terrifying moment, Stiles can only flail on the ground as the sharp winds grab at his bike and toss it away from him. He staggers to his feet, eyes squinting against the air slapping him in the face, hobbling toward his bike in the distance until he’s smacked onto his back.

And then he’s moving; warm hands wrapping about his wrists and dragging him up to his knees. Gathering him in sure, strong arms and carrying him swiftly down the road.

And the wind stops.

Peering up at Peter, Stiles grins. “My hero,” he jokes, leaning up and planting a dry, chaste kiss on the man’s cheek. Turning to face the girls, he laughs, “Look at my knight in nude armor. It’s love, I tell you! Love!”

Laura glances between them – from the joke in the Stiles’ grin to the disappointed confusion that flits momentarily across her uncle’s face – and in her ears pounds Peter’s heart, angry and tired and nervous.

In the corner, Lydia can hardly breathe.

**...**

“We’ll get the bikes ready, then,” Laura drawls, glancing from the house to where Peter is tugging at the loose hanging bit of tow rope still clinging to his rack. “You get Lydia.”

Saluting glibly, Stiles strides up to the house with a sing-songed, “Will do, bossaroo!”

“How is he so cheerful?” Laura hisses under her breath.

“Endorphins, probably,” Peter drawls back.

Striding quickly through the living room, Stiles tears open the basement door and hops down into the depths of the cellar with a cheerful hum. “Hey, Lydia,” he calls, grabbing onto the handrail, leaning over it with a grin. “We’re getting ready to go.”

The woman rests against a wide work table, eyes turned to the floor. “I know,” she whispers.

Glancing up the stairs, then back at Lydia, Stiles takes a cautious step forward. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she hisses. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be okay. You were just in a _tornado_.”

“Well…” He trails off, unsure. “Yeah, I’m pretty shaken up, but, like… I had Peter, you know?”

“ _Peter_!” she laughs.

“What? You got a problem with Peter now? Dude just saved my life.”

“No,” Lydia scoffs darkly. “No, I don’t have a problem with Peter.”

“Then…” Stiles trails off as a dark, foreboding feeling sinks into his stomach as his next words flit about his throat. But even as the feeling grows to great premonition, he can’t stop them from fluttering between his lips. “What’s up?”

Her eyebrows arch condescendingly. “What’s up?” she gasps, amused. Rising from the table, she takes hold of a small jar of preserves sitting abandoned on the tabletop, chucking it furiously at a support beam, sending a shower of broken glass and gooey peach jam to the floor.

“OH MY GOD.”

“I’M HAVING A GODDAMN MELTDOWN, THAT’S WHAT.” Snatching up another jar, she tosses it in a high arc across the room, only for it to catch on the ceiling and crack against the floor, sending a small wave of pickle juice sluicing across the concrete.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“‘The fuck,’ Stiles,” she screams, turning to face him, “is that I have the whole goddamn planet relying on me.” Her hand snatches up another jar, and she pitches it angrily at the wall, sending a spray of apple bits across his shoes, “We’re down a shit-ton of camping supplies.” She follows with another jar of pickles, sending a wave of poorly directed dill over her shoes. “This is who the fuck knows what number of times we’ve nearly lost someone to some freak accident,” both her hands draw around a large container of pickled green beans, lobbing it across the basement for it to shatter against a chair in the far corner, “ _and I’m having a meltdown in a cellar in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Iowa_!” She reaches for another jar, hand scrambling along the empty table for some sort of anchor as a strangled wail fights from her throat.

Instantly, Stiles flies into action, tearing apart shelves and cupboards before spotting in the bottom of a drawer a small case of jars and a pen. Snatching up the pen, he tiptoes across the glass to the closest wall, drawing a big, sloppy circle on it before hopping back to the jars. Then, taking the box in hand, he slaps it on the table. He takes hold of a jar with a twist of his fingers before presenting it to Lydia, sobbing against the table. “Here,” he says. “Throw it.”

Snatching it from his hands, she lobs it furiously into the chair on the far side of the room.

“Good,” Stiles tells her. “Good. Now, try to get the next one in the circle, okay?” Taking her by the shoulder, he points her toward the wall with a wide, nervous grin. “Go on.”

She nails it in one go, peach jam splashing across the bottom of the stairs in a shower of yellowish flesh.

They’re nearly out of jars by the time Lydia draws to a stop, breath heaving into her lungs, silent and still.

“You feeling any better?” Stiles asks.

Flipping her hair, Lydia gathers the last of the jars into her arms and strides toward the stairs, back straight, head high, and eyes sharp and focused.

“Okay,” the man murmurs to himself in the silence of the basement. “Okay.” Climbing the stairs two at a time, taking care of the shattered glass, Stiles races quickly out of the house, squinting against the bright sun. “So, what’s the plan?” he asks. “Am I sitting on the back of someone’s bike?”

“No,” Lydia replies with a surprising amount of smugness in her tone. “You’ll be taking Peter’s bike.”

“What-”

“I’m running,” Peter groans off to the side, bending forward to touch his toes.

“ _What?_ ”

“There’s another ten miles to Clive,” Laura calls, earning all eyes. “We’re going to have an Octogenarian slowing us down, so it’s best to get started now.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Peter snaps.

Kicking herself forward, Lydia rises to her feet and gets a head start on the rest of them. Laura follows, as she does, and Stiles brings up the rear as Peter runs ahead. But as they gain momentum and the pavement stretches further, Peter lags further and further behind until he’s little more than a speck in the distance.

**...**

“Clive Welcomes You,” Laura reads slowly, voice twangy and light.

“Please stop reading that sign,” Stiles groans, flopping against the sleeping bag at his back. “You’ve read that sign at least fifty times.”

“Sixteen,” she corrects, peering around the mass of her pannier to eye the younger man sharply. “I have read that sign _sixteen_ times.”

“Shouldn’t someone go back for him?”

“Peter? Nah, he’s good,” Laura dismisses swiftly. “He’s only got another mile or so to go.”

Leaning further back against Peter’s sleeping bag, Stiles fixes her with a look. “So, just curious, that werewolf hearing thing – what kind of limits are we talking?”

The older woman shrugs. “Depends, really. In cagey places, like a city, it changes all the time. In fields and stuff I get maybe a mile and a half of prime eavesdropping realty.”

“So, when-”

“I try not to eavesdrop,” Laura points out suddenly. “It’s rude and generally you don’t want to hear the stuff you hear.”

“Like people talking shit about you?”

“Like your parents having sex.”

“Jesus.” Sagging against the ground, Stiles turns his eyes to the sky, crossing his arms uncomfortably.

“Super-hearing is not a gift,” the woman continues firmly. “It’s just like regular hearing, but farther. And despite what all the movies will tell you, eavesdropping doesn’t always assure you’re going to hear something valid to you. In my experience, most of what you hear are comments about the weather, sex, and – depending on the locale – herds of bovine.”

**...**

“You’re out of shape, old man.” Drawing his hand up to shade the line of his eyes, Stiles peers up at Peter through the sharp sunlight as the man approaches at a slow jog.

Shoes slapping viciously against the long stretch of pavement, the Marine stomps up to their makeshift excuse for a camp. “Excuse me,” he breathes, “but you have my bike.” Collapsing at the boy’s side, he flops into the soft, warm dirt fluttering about in the breeze, brushing their ankles.

“Well, you’re a great and powerful mythical creature of myth and wonder,” Stiles teases. “Why don’t you just use your powers or something?”

“I’m a werewolf, not an artificially enhanced Arnold Schwarzenegger. I have better stamina and speed than your standard couch potato, yes, but that tends to fade as…”

“As what?”

Hopping to her feet, Laura peers at down at them through squinted eyes as she pats dust off the back of her shorts. “As you get older.” Striding over to her bike, she straddles it quickly.

Lydia rises to her feet, following in her wake.

“What?” Stiles asks, glancing between the two werewolves curiously. “Like your powers fade?”

Peter shakes his head, grimace spreading across his cheeks. “No, like you get older.”

“And how old are you?”

“Thirty-seven. And  _too old to immediately start back up again_. Wait a second, would you?” the older man drawls.  “Five minutes. Is that too much to ask?”

“We’ve been resting for fifteen,” Lydia points out, collapsing her kickstand with a flick of her heel. “Feel free to catch up. We’re not far from town. Just follow the signs to the Sheraton.”

“I thought we weren’t staying at hotels,” Peter notes curiously.

“We’re not staying there; it’s just a landmark to meet up at,” Lydia drawls back. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s go.”

From the back of Stiles’ throat comes a soft whinge. “I think I’ll stay behind with Peter,” he objects. “Take those fives minutes and catch up later. It’s not like it’s my turn to get rations.”

Lydia shrugs. “Fine,” she acknowledges snippishly, hopping up onto her bike. Her feet slap up onto the pedals, sending her off down the road with a graceful flip of her hair.

Glancing between the men cautiously, Laura’s eye linger suspiciously on Peter before she goes to follow.

Leaning back into the dirt, Stiles flops against the ground with a gutteral groan. “God, five whole minutes. What could a guy do with five minutes?”

“You didn’t have to stay behind,” Peter drawls. “I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“Dude, I officially have an excuse to slack the hell off,” the younger man points out dryly. “Don’t take this from me.”

**...**

Just off the highway, the Sheraton West hotel rises above the landscape like a beacon, standing tall and stately among filthy streets and broken roofs.

“Took you long enough,” Laura calls as they approach. “Lydia found us rooms.”

As Peter and Stiles draw up to the entrance, they exchange pertinent glances.

“Sorry,” the younger man murmurs, fingers tapping lightly against the handle brakes to pull before the woman skeptically. “Rooms? Am I missing something?”

Laura motions lazily with one finger, sweeping in the direction of the building. “This place is a community home,” she tells them simply, glancing pointedly at Peter before turning back to Stiles. “Easier to keep one building warm than a series of small rooms, you know?”

“So we’re staying here,” Peter replies, “so  we can find someone to trade with.”

Laura snaps her fingers, head bobbing eagerly. “Bingo.” Motioning toward the building, she strides quickly up the front steps.

In the recesses of Stiles’ brain, his mind properly translates the body language as, “Let’s go, peasants.”

Stumbling up the steps after her, shoving the bike in the older man’s general direction, Stiles grabs at the door and slides inside the hotel with a grateful shiver as a wave of warm air washes over him. “Oh my god,” he moans happily. “Indoor heating.”

“Are you okay?” Peter teases warmly.

“I think I’m in love,” Stiles replies with mock honesty.

The older man’s eyes widen fractionally, pupils ballooning outward before he turns his gaze away, flush rising in his cheeks.

Laura throws him a disapproving glance, then turns away, shaking her head disparagingly. Drawing up to the wide open door labeled “stairwell,” she brushes long bangs to the side. They swing about her face, freed from their strict ponytail.  “Lydia and I are on the fourth floor; you’re on the third. Any questions?”

“Uh, yeah. How did you swing this?”

“How else do you get anything in this economy?” Laura drawls, stomping up the stairs with her hand buried deep in her pockets. “The promise of manual labor.”

**...**

“RIP HER FUCKING HAIR OUT, SWEETHEART.”

Laura’s eyes swing around the room, squinting against the blood dribbling lazily from her hair as hostile fingers draw tight against her scalp. Her gaze trace the length of a long, pale arm stretching away from her face, leading up to a fierce, angry woman. The stranger’s hair is pulled back into a bun; a sharp and flattering black against her flushed cheeks. Drawing her elbow it, she tosses Laura to the ground with a sharp scream.

“KITTY, KITTY, ROAR, ROAR!” the audience chants loyally as Laura hits the barrier with a heavy _clang._

Laura’s shoulder vibrates like a bell, sockets singing in harmony with her head. The ring swings in her vision, spinning sharp and angry in a barrage of color and shadow. Walls of concrete; barriers of brass. It’s a mesh of grays and golds and moving mounds of flesh. Ripe bodies and old blood paint a picture in her nose as she gasps desperately. Her ribs pop and squeal with the effort of expanding, slipping back into place as her hands scramble up the side of the well-loved barrier, smoothing over dents and deep gouges.

“Haven’t had enough?” her opponent taunts, voice surprisingly deep and chipper. She draws up, the high corners of her eyes crinkling with a bright smile. Turning to the audience, the Asian woman swings her arms up with a cry of, “She’s pretty good, isn’t she?”

A chorus of screams flow from the audience, smooth and eager.

Peering up through the mess of blood coursing down her forehead, Laura turns her face to the floor, chest heaving.

“Is that a surrender?” the woman calls cinematically. She reclines grandly against the far side of the barrier with a wide grin. “I said, is that a _surrender_?”

“I surrender,” Laura manages around a tight throat.

Cupping her hand to her ear, the woman leans forward expectantly. “What was that?”

The audience breaks into scattered laughter.

Turning up from the floor, the Nurse fixes her opponent with a grimace. “I surrender,” she says a bit louder, hissing between her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” the Asian woman coos animatedly, earning another wave of laughter from the crowd. “I can’t hear you over all this failure!”

“ _I fucking surrender_ ,” Laura screams. “Is that what you want to hear? I _fucking_ surrender!”

“That’s more like it!” Throwing her arms up happily, her opponent expectantly toward the official at the edge of the ring, head cocked expectantly to the side.

Turning to his right, the man quickly snaps his fingers against the triggers of the bell, sending it ringing through the small room. Leaning forward in his chair, his lips brush against the wide mouth of a cone. “Winner,” he calls, voice echoing through the room, “Kira Yukimura.”

The crowd explodes.

Drawing up to her feet, Laura gingerly vaults over the side of the barrier. The surge of bodies around her is nearly deafening as she makes her way to the bar. Eyeing the barkeep warily, she holds two fingers lightly aloft to garner his attentions.

From her side comes a rustle of fabric and the musky whisper of sweeter sweat. “You were pretty good out there,” Kira croons cheerfully. “It's been a while since someone else was...” She trails off cautiously, glancing curiously toward the cluster of men flanking them on ask sides, laughing loudly, boozy breath rank and sharp. Her gaze lingers pointedly on some women in the corner before her attention turns once more to Laura. “It's just been a while since someone could keep up.”

Laura turns away from the bar, avoiding eye contact with her former adversary as she leans against the treated wood. A stack of reason cards are slapped against the counter, sending a puff of too warm air into the curve of her arm. She snatches it up quickly, shoving it deep in the confines of her jacket.

“Hey,” Kira insists, voice growing suddenly light and shy. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, I'm listening,” Laura replies lightly, pressing around the room. Her eyes light upon the far side of the bar, watching carefully as a man shuffled a set of cards. “Do you know when the heavyweight group starts?”

Kira shrugs, spinning idly in her chair. “In five minutes or so. Why? Guy you like participating?” Her face is blank; tone heavy with envy.

“My uncle,” Laura corrects. “And gross.”

“Just asking,” the woman giggles, expression once more light and cheery. “Don't get your fur in a twist.”

Laura's eyebrows arch dramatically. “Did you just-”

“I'm not stupid,” Kira drawls. She slides her hand along the small section of bar separating them. As their hands meet, her fingers scrape the length of soft, tanned skin stretching across the back of Laura's hand. From the tips of her nails comes a soft, brief glimmer, lightning shimmering across the woman's hand like a brilliant, flickering candle. “We're invisible,” she murmurs. “Everyone's too focused on their lives; staying alive. Even hunters.”

“That doesn't mean it's safe to broadcast anything you want.”

“You're right,” Kira admits lightly. “It’s not. But we have a lot more leeway than we did five years ago; that's for sure.”

Across the room comes a series of three bells, echoing through the club with a hollow clang. “ _In the east corner,_ ” a voice calls. “ _Standing five foot ten-_ ”

“Looks like the next match is starting,” Kira observes, turning to face the ring with a dry grin. “New guy. Your guy? This could be interesting.”

“... _arms of steel and a chin of iron…_ ”

Laura glances over, eyes trailing over the familiar form of her uncle as he stands tall in the ring. He leans casually against the edge of the barrier, elbows propped against the short brass wall.

“Here you go, cat,” one of the bartenders coos suddenly, drawing up to them with a grin. Her hand settles a tall martini on a coaster, nudging it toward the Asian woman with an eager, “On the house.”

“Thanks, Erica.”

Laura glances between them suspiciously, gaze lingering on Erica's sly grin and the self satisfied smile slowly overtaking Kira's lips. After a short second she turns away, focusing her attentions on the crowd slowly clustering around the newly occupied ring.

“ _And in the other corner, an intimidating six-_ ”

“Is it usually this crowded?” Laura inquires. “It seems a bit packed for an underground operation.” Her eyes linger heavily on a group of older women hobbling about the floor, tittering happily as the crowd allows them passage. They clutch at their bags, white hair pulled high on their heads in the same strict, angry bun.

“Usually, yeah. It's not really illegal; we just try to keep things on the down low. Keep fourteen year old kids out of the mess, you know?”

“Fourteen?” Laura parrots lightly. “And how old does that make you?”

“Nineteen,” the younger woman replies easily.

“Uh-huh.” Peering at the woman's drink, she reclines against the bar with a huff.

“Oh,” Kira gasps. “No, this isn't alcoholic.”

“ _Your favorite cat, Sascha!_

Laura frowns, glancing to the woman at her side. “Am I just imagining the ‘cat’ thing?”

“Hmm? Oh, no.” Shifting casually in her seat, Kira leans into the bar to snatch up her drink, bringing it to her lips with a casual smirk. “In the 1920's this was a speakeasy. Someone decided to make a joke of it after we started using it as a fight club and it just caught on, I guess. I don't even hear it any more, to be completely honest.”

“ _Begin!_ ”

Laura glances curiously toward the ring as the crowd's noise grows deafening, riding into a sharp and angry crescendo to nearly drown the first snap of flesh on flesh. The ring has been swallowed by the bystanders, clustering beside the barrier like tall patches of overgrown grass.

“The new guy,” Kira drawls, demanding her attention. “You said he was your uncle?”

“He's my uncle,” Laura replies lightly, straining to see over the ocean of shoulders and ponytails.

“That’s cool!”

The nurse glances over, surprised by the downright hopeful tone.

“Don't you dare let that fuckboy get the best of you, dearie!” an older woman screams, voice high and undeniably British. “Go for his jugular!”

“Am I missing something?” she asks lowly, peering into the woman's eyes over the rim if her glass.

“Maybe,” Kira hums, taking another measured sip of her drink. “I wouldn't really know what you're missing, seeing as I'm not you.”

“I feel like six different things are flying right over my head,” she murmurs, “and I'm just not catching them.”

From the ring comes a choked groan, and Laura's head shoots around, alarmed. “What-”

“Sascha is winning,” Kira notes airily. “He always wins, one way or the other.”

“But Peter's a veteran.”

“You think he's the first veteran Sascha has fought?”

**...**

Sascha is young.

Peter is old.

The Marine feels this in his bones as he staggers to his feet. A trio of lines score his chest, bleeding sluggishly.

“Come on, old man,” he opponent teases brushing back a long strand of dark brown hair. “I need a better warm up than this!”

The crowd shrieks, and a trio of white haired women cackle at the ring’s edge.

Shaking his head in an attempt to banish the high ring echoing through his ears, Peter draws his fists up as the Native American man descends with a hollow war cry. They pound against his wrists twice before withdrawing with a sharp taunt.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he shouts. “Did someone pull your teeth, old dog?”

Peter snarls, lunging forward with a low fist. But just as he draws close the younger man snatches it from its path, drawing it up and over his shoulder and tossing the Marine to the ground.

Bending forward, Sascha bares his teeth, hissing menacingly through them. “We don’t take kindly to Omegas around here,” he spits. “Find your own hunting ground.”

Peter grunts as sharp, inhumanly long nails pierce his skin, driving into the flesh of his chest to burrow between his ribs before slipping right back out, the skin stitching itself together in a wash of pain and fire.

And then he falls.

“... _still champion…_ ”

**...**

Hands slapping the edge of the barrier, Laura stares down at Peter’s motionless body, concerned. “Something’s wrong.”

“You’re just a bag of laughs, aren’t you?” Kira drawls.

“He's not healing. His side-”

Arms skipping quickly between the gap at Laura's side, Kira tugs her bodily through the crowd pushing her way towards the far wall. Fingers finding the seam of a wide for, she pushes the older woman bodily through the gap, following her quickly into the small tiled bathroom beyond. Drawing away, her hand slaps over the door knob with a hollow click. In an instant the sound of the club falls away, giving in to an overbearing, echoing silence.

“What did you do that for?” Laura drawls.

“There are a few regular hunters,” Kira replies lightly. “Just wanted to avoid a scene.”

“But you said-”

“Things are better for the supernatural community,” Kira interjects sharply. “That doesn't mean they won't hunt an injured werewolf given the chance. If you have something to say about his condition you day it where they can't hear.”

“Behind closed doors,” Laura murmurs. “Why does it always have to be behind closed doors?”

“First thing's first; we get your uncle somewhere safe.”

“Then what?”

“Then we go to the local pack and talk to Sascha's alpha.”

**June 8th, 2015**

Spit flying, Stiles snorts awake with a startled groan. His elbow twitches against a warm bit of flesh brushing lightly against it, and his eyes flutter open. “Peter?” he calls lightly.

The older man huffs lowly, burrowing his face deep in the curve of Stiles neck.

Jumping, Stiles’ hand comes around to the man’s torso to push him off, only for his fingers to curve around the edge of the bandage clinging to his side. “Hey, whoa, what’s this? Are you okay?”

“Go to sleep,” the Marine insists in the curve of his neck, breath sluicing wetly along the younger man’s jugular. Sliding his hand up the length of his companion’s torso, Peter rests it heavily on the curve of an exposed collar bone, pressing him further into the bed. “Just sleep.”

Stiles eases back into the pillow, concern marring his expression. “Are you really okay?”

“I will be,” Peter replies softly. “Soon.”

**...**

Striding up to the yellow apartment complex, Laura leans over to whisper casually, “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Kira turns her eyes from the building with a giggle. “What were you expecting? A moat?”

“Kinda,” the older woman replies lightly. “My family lives in a mansion in the woods.”

“No way,” her companion giggles. “Do people get murdered there and everything?”

“Don't be silly; no one dies in the preserve.”

Striding up to the stairwell, Laura strides up to the second story with grim determination. But as she draws up to the door, shoes sleeping all too loudly against the wood panels beneath her feet, one of the far doors pops open wide in invitation, hanging wide on its hinges.

“ _Come in,_ ” a voice whispers, sliding through the air like a promise.

Laura glances suspiciously back at Kira as the younger woman ascends the steps. “This is the right place,” she confirms lightly.

“What? Are all werewolves giant raging drama queens or something?”

“Yes.” Stepping away from the stairs, Laura strides confidently toward to dark doorway, peering cautiously into the foyer as she draws up. Her fingers settle cautiously on the line of the frame. Her shoes clear the line of the threshold without a sign of hesitation, bringing her into the small quarters. As her eyes adjust she glances about, gaze lingering on the doilies draped across counters and tabletops.

“I know.”

Jumping sharply, Laura turns to face a thin, middle aged man reclining in an older chair.

His finger picks at a section of an embroidered flower, dull nails drawing along a long green stem. Turning his face up to meet the gaze of his guest, be chuckles. “Not quite what you expect from an alpha den.”

“Not really, no,” Laura agrees, time tentative.

“Compared to your mother's, it's really quite simple – do come in, dearie.”

“No,” Kira calls from the entryway. “I'm good. You guys just do your thing.”

“If you insist,” the alpha concedes. His eyes turn to Laura, a piercing red glimmering in the shadows of the living room. “Now, my dear, how is Talia doing these days?”

Laura shifts uneasily, fingers curling nervously against sweaty palms. “Who wants to know?”

“Honestly, Laura, you don't remember me?” the man teases. “I'm hurt.”

“To my knowledge, I don't know anyone who doesn't live on the west coast,” she replies bitterly.

The man chuckles. “My name is Deucalion.”

For a long, tense silence, Laura stares him down. “No shit?” she murmurs, unimpressed. “Cool beans.”

“Now, to business,” the man drawls, clapping his hands enthusiastically. It's far too loud in the small apartment, doilies practically vibrating in their places. “My beta injured your beta thinking he was an omega. What would you like for your silence?”

For another long, taut moment, the younger woman remains silent. “It cannot be this fucking easy.”

Deucalion chuckles, leaning forward in his chair. “Oh, it can be,” he drawls. “You get what you want, and then you leave town. My club continues as it was and we're all happy.”

**...**

Hands tight against the line of new, chrome handlebars, Laura breathes out a long sigh of relief. “Holy shit,” she murmurs. “I did it.”

“Congratulations,” Kira coos, pushing away from dilapidated white siding to draw up with a grin.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Laura murmurs, voice wavering dangerously as she stares down at the bike. “You didn’t have to go with me, or bring me to Deucalion.”

“It was nothing,” the younger woman insists. “Literally.”

“I still want to thank you somehow,” Laura insists, glancing up earnestly.

Kira shrugs. “A kiss would be nice,” she jokes lightly.

Grinning, Laura leans swiftly forward and slips their lips together.

The younger woman jumps, hands coming up on instinct as if to stop or pull close her assailant. But they remain stranded in the air, hovering about the casually constructed mess that is Laura’s hair. And as the older woman pulls away, Kira’s eyes flutter open and she stares straight ahead in a daze. “Wasn’t expecting that,” she breathes, flush rising in her cheeks.

“Have a nice life,” Laura insists sharply. Then, throwing her leg over the bike, she sets off down the road with a smile.

“Is this goodbye?” Kira calls in her wake, smile falling as suddenly as it came.

Pale, unpainted lips purse at the words, but remain closed, parting only several minutes later in an uneven, swift grin.

“I got a bike,” she cheers softly, cheeks fluttering sweetly upward.

“You did,” Lydia replies evenly, eyes lingering on Laura with a sigh. “Now go take care of Peter.”

**June 9th, 2015**

Beneath an overcast sky, Lydia, Laura, and Peter pull over to the side of the road.

Laura peers behind them as they settle in, propping up a tent as a few drops clatter to the ground. “Think we lost ‘im?”

“I hope not,” Lydia drawls in reply. “My seat needs to be adjusted.”

Stomping on a stake, Peter points the women inside the tent. “Go ahead and get the things inside. I’ll take care of the tarp.”

Immediately dropping an armful of tent supplies to the ground, Lydia shrugs happily. “That sounds like a plan.”

**...**

When Stiles finally comes into view, his breath is sharp and desperate. He pedals madly up to the tent through the scattered showers falling silently to the pavement, leaving small rivers pooling to the side of the road.

“We could just retie the rope,” Peter suggests as the man dismounts, stomping his bike up to the tent.

Stiles’s eyes glance his way before flicking back to the ground. His fingers draw tight against the handlebars, and the gentle squeal of twisting rubber floats through the breeze.

Peter blinks. “Hey,” he calls lightly. Then, again, as Stiles remains silent. “Hey, is everything alright?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps. “You tell me.”

Thin eyebrows furrow as the older man eyes his companion cautiously. Rising to his feet, he slaps his hand on the younger man’s handlebars, halting him in his tracks. “What is this about, Stiles?”

Jerking his handlebars to the side, Stiles’ lips twist in an angry grimace. “Just fuck off, okay?” he hisses. His voice gives out midway, squealing lightly through his throat.

Peter sighs. “Stiles-”

“What do you _fucking_ think is the problem” the man bursts suddenly. “You’re out for, like, two days, and no one tells me shit. Is this some kind of macho bullshit? You don’t have to fucking impress me, okay?”

Fingers growing tight against the handlebars, Peter snorts. It’s a light, airy sound. Arrogant at best, angry at worst. And as he leans forward – intimidating, towering – his lips move with the intent of a joke.  “Maybe I want to impress you.”

His words hang like a dreamcatcher.

Slowly, Stiles’ eyes widen fraction by fraction as Peter’s words drag their animosity to a grinding halt.

Peter turns away, flush high on his cheeks, and his fingers unwind from the bridge of Stiles’ bike. “I didn’t mean-”

“You did,” the younger man replies shortly.

Silence reigns.

Taking a deep, contemplative breath, Stiles reaches for the zipper of the tent.

Peter doesn’t stop him.

**June 12th, 2015**

Three days pass.

Three days of riding. Three days of hushed meals over the stove. Three days of murmured insistences that they are not, in fact, fighting, thanks. Three days of avoiding each other. Three days of the bare exchange of pleasantries, at best. Three days of Peter going to bed early as Stiles lingers by the stove, fingers outstretched before the glowing coils as he throws suspicious looks back at their shared tent.

Three days of making absolutely sure Peter is asleep before joining him in their shared tent.

It’s only on the fourth day, just outside Davenport, that they jolt awake at the clatter of a canteen. For a few terrifying moments it is just the two of them. Peter’s arm is thrown over a waist too trim for health, hipbones sharp and angry against pale skin. His elbow rests in the cleft; hand tangled with long, wiry fingers.

And then the body under his arm is throwing him aside, rising quickly out of the bag fully clothed.

“Not a word,” Stiles hisses, and Peter feels his stomach drop somewhere beneath the ground to be buried and forgotten.

The older man watches as his companion storms from the tent, flap snapping back and forth in his wake. Slapping his fingers over his face, Peter rubs furiously at his eyes with an anxious groan. Sun dapples seep through the dimmed roof of the tent. Sharp. Gentle. Far too brilliant for the lazy light of early morning.

They had slept in.

Blinking through the fuzz in his eyes, Peter’s jaw falls open as a yawn grips his lungs, throwing his head back his his chest balloons outward.

Stiles’ voice flutters loudly into the makeshift room, insistent and panicked. “You’re going to refill the canteens?” he inquires. “Take me with you!”

“We’ve got enough hands,” Laura drawls. There’s a clatter of metal, and the whir of a tire spinning on its axle. “Just work on the bikes or something. Check the brakes. Or, god forbid, talk to Peter.”

“And why should I talk to Captain Douche Canoe?”

There’s the gentle swish of fabric, and another clink of metal before an answer comes; a low and insistent, “Because we’ve got 800 miles left and you’re both acting like five year olds.”

“But he…” Stiles’ voice trails into nothing, uncertain.

Peter shuffles in his sleeping bag, dragging the covers up his shoulders, his neck, and finally drawing them over his head.

“He what?” Laura demands. “Stiles, are you angry right now?”

“No.”

“Ashamed?”

“Not-”

“Did he do anything to hurt you or invade your privacy?”

“He didn’t-”

“Stiles, do you feel unsafe around him in any way?”

The air is too warm. Too wet. But instead of peeling the covers away, Peter’s fingers curl tighter in the fabric as his breath hisses anxiously in and out of his lips. A tremor fights its way into his feet, working its way up his legs and into his torso and chest and hands and  _everything_ until he’s nothing more than a pile of shivering limbs humming silently beneath the dilapidated sleeve of a worn sleeping bag.

“Could we not talk about this within  _hearing distance_ of the problem?” Stiles hisses sharply, voice carrying all too clearly through the layers of vinyl separating them.

Peter flinches.

“Takes two to tango,” Laura accuses dryly with a hollow, bitter hum fluttering at the tail end of her words.

There’s the clatter of rubber on beaten dirt, the squeal of a tire, and the steady clinking of canteens as two pairs of footsteps steer away from camp.

“Whatever beef you have with Peter, fix it,” Laura calls behind her, voice sharp.

“Shit,” Stiles growls, tone heavy and bitter in the muted rustle of the forest.

Blowing out a low, tense breath, Peter rises from his sleeping bag with a small grimace tugging slightly damp shorts over the curve of his ass as he crouches beneath the roof of the tent. Tugging a shirt over his head, he steps into a pair of pants before collecting himself with a slow, heavy breath. “You can do this,” he tells himself lowly. “He's just some asshole.”

“I can hear you in there!” Stiles calls angrily. “Stop hiding and face me.”

Peter shakes his head, pushing the tent flap to the side as he steps into his shoes. “My apologies,” he drawls bitterly, throwing his arms out wide in a mock display of surrender. “I was under the impression that you were avoiding me.”

“I  _am_ avoiding you,” the younger man insists sharply.

“Then make up your goddamn mind about it.”

“Go fuck a tree.”

“Suck on a wrench.”

**...**

Peering over the crooked wheel in hand, Stiles’ eyes linger on strong, tanned hands as they smooth other the length of wood. Nails drawn to a blackened point, shavings drop off in their wake, making way for a malformed shape.  “What are you carving?” he asks dryly. “A dog?”

Peter hums lightly, tilting his head to eye the lightly whittled stick as he holds it at a distance, the lines of his eyebrows growing close in an exaggeration of appreciation. “An arrowhead.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles hisses. “You’ve been working on that for, like, twenty minutes. You’ve just been _sharpening it_ this _whole time_?”

“If I were Jesus it would look better.”

For a long, awkward moment there is nothing but silence.

“Was that a joke?” Stiles gapes.

“No,” Peter denies softly. “That was a kitten.”

Leaning back against his makeshift chair, the dry, sun dried twigs at his back squealing as they snap away from the long length of the fallen tree trunk, the  bike mechanic turns his eyes to the axle, tugging at the rim of the crooked wheel with grim determination. “You know, this whole schtick you’re doing?”

“What schtick?”

“The one where you seem all ‘approachable’ and shit,” Stiles snaps, throwing up quotes with his fingers. “It’s not working. You’re not going to change my mind.”

Peter sighs. “I’m not going to try to change your mind. Only you can do that.”

The younger man shakes his head slowly, sharp brown eyes slipping across the ground to slide along the length of long, thin legs thrown across the ground. “You know what I think? I think people look kind of freaky.”

“Of course people look freaky. They’re people.”

“No, I mean, like, we’re like aliens. We look really fuckin’ weird. Long legs, long arms, a torso that’s left exposed, bits of flesh we’re supposed to find attractive – I really don’t get it.”

“Look, just drop it, okay? I know what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not getting at anything?”

“ _Why does this scare you so much?_ ” he snaps, leaning forward, eyes shuttering into angry slits. “You didn't care when you found out I was bisexual.”

“Do you think Lydia would like me sharing a tent with her?”

Blinking smartly, Peter remains utterly and completely still for a long, tense second before leaning back against his rock with the elegant arch of an eyebrow. “You make an excellent point.” Motioning around the camp with one long, dark fingernail, he grunts. “So this whole thing isn't just you worried I'll turn you gay, is it?”

Stiles snorts, eyes turning dramatically to the sky before turning back to the older man with a light flutter of his eyelashes. “What are you? Twelve? You can't 'turn' gay.”

Peter chuckles. “You're better informed than I thought.”

“I'm demisexual you son of a bitch.”

Thin eyebrows arch amusedly, gaze flicking away from a poor job to whittling to graze lightly across the pale stretch of skin flushing brightly just beneath Stiles' eyes. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, really, so go shove those assumptions I can hear in your stupid voice somewhere the sun don't shine. That should keep you busy for a while.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to react that what you’re doing?” Peter drawls. “When you’re not avoiding me you’re either biting my head off or causing trouble.”

“Well how the hell would you handle learning someone twice your age had a raging crush on you?” the younger man drawls. “I'm allowed to be uncomfortable.”

“You really think I would make a big deal out of some stupid little crush?” Peter sneers dryly.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles snarks. He turns away from the bike, wrench held loosely in one hand. “Then what, pray tell-”

“I'm in love with you.”

The wrench hits the ground with a clatter, bouncing off the dirt with a series of clicks and a harshly muted _thump_.

“Like I said,” the older man mumbles under his breath, voice a whisper in the gentle breeze. “Practically all you do is cause trouble.”

**June 13th, 2015**

“The grass is pretty green here,” Peter drawls, striding up to the water’s edge with a small grin. Dropping his towel to the ground, he reaches for the hem of his shirt. “It’s-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell?!” Stiles shrieks, knees buckling beneath the surface of the water.

“What?”

“I’m naked, here!”

“Stiles, we’ve been bathing, sleeping, and changing together for a month. I’ve literally seen your dick at least thirty times.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I knew you wanted to hop on my dick! I’m allowed to be fucking uncomfortable, remember?”

Snatching up his towel with a light grown, Peter storms away with a barked, “Fucking Stiles.”

“ _No one’s going to be fucking Stiles!_ ”

**June 14th, 2015**

It’s a slow but productive day and Stiles decides to zone out and run over a snake.

Maybe ‘decides’ is the wrong word.

“You’re going to have to cut it off!” Stiles screams.

“We don’t have to cut off your leg!” Laura insists sharply, hovering over the bite with her kit.

“Stiles, stop freaking out! It’s a Western Hognose Snake! They’re not poisonous!” Lydia shouts over his screams.

Peter shrugs and offers, “I could cut off his leg.”

“NO ONE’S CUTTING OFF ANYONE’S LEGS!” Laura shrieks over everyone, yanking out an alcohol wipe.

**...**

Limping gingerly up to the front glass doors of a dark convenience store, Stiles peers in, squinting through the rain pissing like a drunk man all about the road. “I think it's empty,” he announces miserably.

“Think or know?” Laura shouts after him, racing beneath the overhang of the building with a wet gasp. “Shit, it's really coming down. How many miles was that?”

“Fifty-four,” Lydia replies tersely. “A good day, I guess.”

“Can’t you guys just listen for heartbeats or something stupid like that?” Stiles suggests dryly.

Peter scoffs. “There’s too much rain for that.”

“... Wait, so you _can_ -”

Drawing up on one leg, Laura slams a foot just above the lock, sending the door flying inwards. Falling to her feet, she strides in with an exasperated sigh. “Boys,” she breathes. Then, louder, she calls, “Is anybody here?”

A silence follows in the wake of her voice, filling the convenience store like a gas.

Spinning in place, sending droplets of water flying from her soaked hair, she looks Stiles, then Peter in the eye with a smug grin. “I guess it’s empty.”

“Subtlety is a virtue,” Peter drawls dryly.

“No it’s not.”

Stepping in after the woman, Stiles moves into the store with a grateful sigh. Running a hand through his hair, he flicks the water off onto the yellowed linoleum floor with a grin. “Think they have anything good left?”

Following in his wake, Lydia peers from empty shelf to empty shelf, then to a pile of abandoned stuffed animals in the corner, shaking her head in defeat. “Probably nothing we can use.”

“It must have been February when this place closed down,” Peter notes dryly, stepping in after them, grimace pointed at a particularly large bear bearing a large heart proclaiming “I WUB U” in bold pink lettering.

“ _Guys_ ,” Laura screeches.

They group glances over to where the woman stands at a splintered side door, holding aloft a large package with an ecstatic grin.

“Toilet paper!” she screams.

Stiles screeches.

Lydia gasps.

Peter may cry a little.

**...**

Snatching up the last of the unclaimed stuffed animals, Stiles retreats behind the cashier counter. But as his knees wobble he throws one last look across the store. The shelves have been rearranged in a makeshift barrier, the occasional whisper breaking beyond its walls to float about the room.

“Think you’ve got enough pillow fodder?” Peter snorts, drawing up to peer at the small carpet the younger man had arranged from cheesy winter gifts.

Shrugging shyly, Stiles shakes his head. “B- barely,” he replies awkwardly, the word stilted and dry. “I could still… could still use a few, like… dozen.”

The older man shakes his head the jumbled joke. “That sounds a little excessive,” he points out without a trace of humor.

“The little hearts would carry me off to Valhalla,” he jokes, voice growing smooth.

Peter shakes his head amusedly. “I don't know. Nothing keeps you up quite like an embroidered pillow.”

Stiles makes a face, shuffling the stuffed animals with one foot. “You say that like you have experience.”

Dropping his arms to the counter, Peter rests his weight against the surface with an amused chuckle. “I dated this guy, once,” he begins. “One day, without warning, he took all my pillowcases without and embroidered them.”

“God,” the younger man chuckles. “You must have really loved him.”

“We broke up the next day,” he amends quickly. “You can’t just take things from someone, change them, and then expect the person to be happy about it just because you’re dating.”

Stiles blinks, confused. “So you just… broke up because they embroidered your pillows?”

The comment is met with a heavy, tired sigh. “Did you hear anything that just came out of my mouth?”

His companion shrugs, adjusting the cluster of stuffed animals in his arms to brandish a particularly ugly bear. “Love Bear does not approve.”

Shaking his head, the older man snorts. “I think I’ll live.”

Tossing the the bears to the floor, Stiles collapses into the pile with a casual sigh, burying his face in his arms.

Peter peers down at the man in amusement, scooting further up the counter to peer over the edge. “Comfortable?”

“What’s love like?”

Thin eyebrows arch in open surprise. “Segways are not your friend.”

“Is it like the movies?” the younger man continues, undaunted. “Heart pounding, die for them sort of thing?”

“Not at all,” he drawls in reply, drawing a hand up to observe the grit beneath his nails critically.

“Then what’s it like? Really?”

Tearing his attention away from the dirt permeating his nails, Peter drags his eyes to meet the soft gaze trained on the ceiling. He blinks once. Twice. Then, slowly, he licks his lips. “It’s…” He stalls, clearing his throat. “I guess it’s looking at someone and thinking, ‘I can see myself wasting the next forty years shooting the shit with you.’”

Stiles frowns. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Peter replies.

“So there are no fireworks? Or tingles? Or, you know, great feelings that overwhelm you the moment you look at them or anything?”

Long hair flops as the older man shakes his head in a negative. “That feeling fades much faster than you would think,” he informs Stiles softly. “Love is quiet. It’s a decision, more than anything else. Love can be many things. It can make you want to hurt someone – which you always have to keep an eye out for. It can make you want to care for them. Love is…” As his lips fall open, Peter pauses, watching in surprise as hands come away from bright brown eyes that stare straight through him.

And again, he can’t breathe.

“Attraction is wanting to kiss someone,” he continues slowly. “Not being able to breathe around them, or think, or eat. Love…” He chokes, breaking his gaze away from Stiles’. “Sometimes love,” he whispers, “is some angry dipshit throwing rocks at swans and all you can think of is how you hope to god it helps.”

Silence. It stretches, thick and pliable, waiting and waiting to snap, but never quite reaching its end.

After an age of nothing, Peter slowly lifts his eyes from the counter, only to lay his gaze on an expression of utter awe.

Stiles’ lower lip quivers oh so slightly.

“Are you done being mad at me?” the older man beseeches weakly.

Slowly, brown eyes flicker to the floor, then back, as a pale face dips casually in a small nod.

And a hand comes down to pat a space among a sea of stuffed animals.

A soft grin splitting his face, Peter steps around the counter to slide into the offered space, brushing back a lock of wet hair as it clings to his throat.

**June 15th, 2015**

Between two and three in the morning, as a bolt of lightning illuminates the abandoned convenience store just outside Joliet, Illinois, Stiles leans forward and brushes his lips against a chapped pair belonging to one Peter Hale.

**June 16th, 2015**

“Welcome to Indiana, Crossroads of America,” Laura reads off faithfully, throwing her head back with a loud cackle.

Lydia shakes her head wearily, glancing over her shoulder with a dry call of, “Let’s pull over.”

“What? Why?” Laura gapes even as she guides her bike off the road after the younger woman.

Tapping at her brakes, the woman hops off her bike with a dismissive flip of her long, strawberry blonde hair. “It’s nearly eighty degrees,” she points out, engaging the kickstand with a swift twitch of her foot. “We can’t have another incident.”

Stopping off behind the woman, Peter slides off his bike with a shrug. “I’ll set up camp,” he suggests. “We can get started again once the sun goes down.”

“Are you sure?” Laura asks, glancing up the road. “It’s not that hot.”

“To _you_ ,” Lydia drawls. “This is a nightmare.”

Pulling up to the group, Stiles heaves a desperate gasp, collapsing against his handlebars with a wet groan.

A strawberry blonde eyebrow arches pointedly.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Laura groans. “Can we at least catch a bath?” she asks, hand shooting off in the direction of a pond in the distance.

**...**

As soon as the tents are pitched, Stiles’ fingers bury in Peter’s collar, dragging him down for a kiss.

“What-” the man manages before lips slap unceremoniously to his, silencing him effectively.  He manages a few fevered smacks before pulling away with a shake of his head. “What brings this on?” he inquires warmly, arms coming up around the man before him.

Reaching back with one hand, Stiles pulls the tent flap closed with a grin. “Laura and Lydia always take forever,” he explains softly, reaching forward to tangle his hands with the long, dilapidated strands of Peter’s hair, tacky with sweat and grime. “We’re alone.”

Peter peers into the younger man’s eyes, gaze hooded, mouth ajar. Slowly, his jaw slides shut, and he leans forward to press his lips hesitantly against his partner’s neck. “You okay with this?’ he requests in a soft, low breath that slips along pale skin and sharp, sunken collar bones.

“Yes,” Stiles breathes. “Yes.”

Grabbing at the younger man’s shirt, Peter pulls it up, catching it around the man’s armpits before dropping quickly to his knees with a quiet _thump_. “And this?” Leaning forward, he mouths lightly at the exposed bit of skin.

A soft gasp. “Yes.”

“And this?” Hands slipping around trim hips, Peter grips the man’s ass, mouthing at the swiftly hardening length in Stiles’ shorts.

“Maybe…”

Slowly, blue eyes trail up a tall, pall figure to meet brown. “Maybe?” he quotes softly.

“Maybe that’s too fast,” he admits lowly.

“Okay,” Peter murmurs.

Stiles’ eyes widen, curious. “Okay?” he parrots dumbly.

“Okay,” the older man repeats again, rising to his feet with a whisper of fabric. “That’s okay.” Leaning forward, he presses his lips to a mole.

**June 21st, 2015**

“What do you miss most?”

Squinting against the glaring light of the sun, Laura peers down at the parking lot far belong her feet, shoes swaying with the breeze. “What do you mean?” she asks, glancing up at the woman at her side.

Strawberry blonde tresses spilling out behind her, Lydia breathes a long sigh. “Society,” she murmurs. “What do you miss most about it?”

Shaking her head lightly, the older woman turns to the parking lot with a frown. “That’s a pretty hard question,” she admits softly.

“I miss the internet.”

“Ha. Figures.”

Glancing sharply to her companion, Lydia’s eyebrows draw together sharply. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re smart,” Laura offers with a shrug. “You’ve got this huge brain on top of your neck, and what’s intelligence without food?”

Slowly, a grin splits Lydia’s cheeks. “Thanks.”

“And… I guess I miss Burger King.”

The smiles drops. “You don’t strike me as a Burger King kind of girl.”

“Are you kidding?” Laura drawls. “If mom didn’t stop me, I’d have it for every meal. It’s not like I’ll have a heart attack.” Smacking her chest with one hand, she laughs. “Werewolf.”

“You know, if it weren’t for this trip we probably wouldn’t be friends,” Lydia muses quietly. “It’s strange.”

Glancing over, the older woman’s mouth tips down in a grimace. “I hope you know you’re one of my best friends. You and Stiles. I’d die for you guys.”

Lydia snorts. “Sorry, but I’m not dying for you.”

Reaching forward, Laura slips her fingers between pale, lightly freckled hands, gripping them tight. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” she murmurs. “I’d want you to live.”

**June 24th, 2015**

As the sun begins to fall below the horizon, Lydia turns to face Laura, hair spilling about her shoulders in the wind. “Should we keep going?” she calls. “It’s sixty more miles.”

Cheeks flushed, Laura turns back to Peter. “What do you think?” she asks.

Glancing at his side, Peter draws close to Stiles and calls, “Should we keep going?”

Smiling weakly, Stiles pulls a hand away from the handlebars to prop his thumb to the sky.

“Whoo!” Laura shouts, rising to her feet on her pedals and whooping to the clouds.

As the sky goes dark, Lydia’s fingers find the switch on her handlebars, sending a beam of light streaking from the headlamp fixed to the front of her bike sweeping along the pavement.

Their chests are full of something on the brink of amazing.

**June 25th, 2015**

In the early dawn light, the Washington Monument stands tall and intimidating They park before it, bikes nearly side-by-side on the road with Lydia’s Dynamo powering the lamp setting the lawn alight.

“This is it,” Lydia whispers, eyes wide.

Settling a hand low on the younger woman’s back, Laura gives her a gentle push. “Go on,” she says.

Slowly, the woman nods. And as the sun rises, she strides up to the front doors, head high and arms politely held at her sides as her sneakers slap the concrete with grim finality.

Leaning into Peter’s side, Stiles slips his hand into his boyfriend’s with a grim smile. “Think we made it?”


End file.
